


Delirien

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Category: Henry VI Part 1 - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Childbirth, Epic Legal Fail (Chancery), F/M, Gen, More disputed wills than strictly necessary, Profanity, Violence, WWI-era trench warfare, an excess of Strauss, gratuitous Shakespeare references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the giddy years of the early twentieth century, the families of York and Lancaster seem to have come to an uneasy truce when Humphrey Lancaster befriends young Richard York and offers him a chance to mend his wrecked fortunes. What neither of them anticipates is the war that will destroy everything they know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for au_bigbang and part of the 'Sweet Fortune's Minions' AU. It is never stated in the plays when Richard and Cecily marry, or the birthdates of their sons, so I am taking some liberties with the timeline. Shakespeare never mentions Humphrey of Gloucester's first wife, Jacqueline of Hainault, despite the fact that _1 Henry VI_ covers the time period during which Humphrey was married to her, had an affair with her lady-in-waiting, Eleanor Cobham, and, after their marriage was declared invalid, married Eleanor. She is too, too brilliant for me to resist including her.
> 
> Title comes from a waltz by Josef Strauss, 'Delirien, Op. 212', that has established itself in my brain as the background music for the opening scene and seems to fit the setting rather well.
> 
> My deepest thanks to Rosamund, Gileonnen, and angevin2 for getting me to the end, to Catja Mikhailovic and jehane18 for beta-reading and legal consultations. Also to Gileonnen for [the gorgeous family tree](http://i40.tinypic.com/15mi5xd.jpg).
> 
> This fic has an accompanying fanmix composed by Cherith. It is _glorious_ and [**available here**](http://cherith.livejournal.com/696830.html).

_The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime_. -- Sir Edward Grey, 3 August 1914

 

_This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz  
With its very own breath of brandy and death  
Dragging its tail in the sea_.

\-- Leonard Cohen, 'Take This Waltz'

 

Theirs was a golden world.

 

Twenty-five years had passed since a frozen night in February when a man named Richard Perrivale had died behind the locked doors of Pomfrey House Hospital in Yorkshire. It had been declared a suicide at the time, but Humphrey Lancaster had suspected otherwise, as had his eldest brother Harry, the newly named heir of both Lancaster and Perrivale. Their father had seen to that; he might as well have signed the will himself for all the choice he had given Cousin Richard.

 

Five years too since Harry himself had gone missing thousands of miles away. He'd never quite fit into this world, however well he played the part of wealthy squire, devoted husband, and smiling father. It was Humphrey who had taken it upon himself to care for Harry's son and namesake in this strange, wild time, and Humphrey who had wilfully ignored the less pleasant choices his brother had made, both in Chancery and out of it.

 

He knew, as they all did, that the past could not stay buried forever and that dead men's shadows pursued the living even in the most glorious of days. So Humphrey chose to meet it head-on and addressed a letter to the far reaches of northern Wales where--if Harry's records were correct and they always were--a woman named Anne York still dwelt, whose husband had died before Humphrey's very eyes.

 

_Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God_.

 

The letter he received in return was stilted, long-buried anger resurfacing in each penstroke, but at least she had responded. Indeed, she even mentioned her son, now an undergraduate in Oxford. His name--and something unsettling lanced through Humphrey as he read this--was Richard.

 

But he was not a man to read his fortune in a series of coincidences, to endow a name with a ghost's power. Richard Perrivale was dead. Whatever the manner of his death, whatever nightmarish images it conjured, he was gone, safely buried with his wife in Kensal Green. The world had long since moved on, and it was high time the Lancasters did the same.


	2. Part I

_i. This quarrel will drink blood another day  
\--Henry VI, Part I (II.iv.133)_

 

Richard York had spent much of the journey to the Savoy trying to formulate the best way to introduce himself to Henry Lancaster. When the only connection they had involved the fact that Henry's father had murdered Richard's at a hunting party more than ten years before--even if it was for conspiring against him--the potential conversation topics were unfortunately limited. Even more so by the fact that Henry Lancaster hadn't even been a twinkle in his mother's eye when those events had taken place.

 

It was wrong to blame him, of course, and Richard didn't, so to speak. His mother's fury and anguish had long since burnt out, but even with the death of the previous Henry Lancaster, who had cast such a shadow over his family all these years, their fortunes had yet to turn. It seemed they cast a similar shadow over the Lancasters, or so Anne York, née Mortimer, had remarked in her more bitter moments. It was no coincidence that she had named her son after long-dead Richard Perrivale, whose vast estate had once been entailed to her elder brother.

 

What had been a coincidence was his meeting with Humphrey Lancaster, well-known patron of Exeter College, in the Fellows' Garden the week before. Richard, half-drunk on champagne after his last exam, had somehow succeeded (although he couldn't for his life remember how) in vaulting over the wall and had emerged from beneath the Warden's prized arbour to find an older gentleman studying him, eyes bright with suppressed laughter.

 

"I see things haven't changed very much at all since my days here." There was something unaccountably familiar about him although Richard couldn't quite place it. "Have they, Edmund?"

 

From behind him came an unmistakeable laugh and Richard had to fight to keep his smile from turning into a grimace. Edmund Somerset was in the year before him and it had taken all of five minutes at the beginning of his tenure in Oxford for Richard to despise him with every fibre of his being. He slung his arm round the older gentleman's shoulders and gestured dismissively toward Richard with a half-empty champagne glass. "No, Cousin Humphrey, I'm afraid they've started letting the riffraff in. Will you leave on your own, York, or must I call the bull-dogs to get rid of you?" The red tassel on his cap flicked back and forth, an inexorable reminder of the gulf between them.

 

Richard opened his mouth to protest when Somerset's cousin held up his hand for silence. "York, is it?"

 

"Richard York, sir." He straightened, brushing stray rose petals off his sleeves and studiously avoiding looking at Somerset. "And I was under the impression that _no_ students were permitted in the Fellows' Garden..."

 

He trailed off, suddenly aware that the older man was staring at him. "Robert York's boy, or I'll be damned." Holding out one hand, he said, "Humphrey Lancaster. I believe you've been owed an apology for some time."

 

Richard took it without thinking, memory flooding back of a very different arbour and a grand house on a hill that he'd almost convinced himself he'd imagined as a child. No wonder Somerset had singled him out, even amongst the servitors, all this time--he was a poor relation. And no doubt Somerset had known it all along if the smirk on his face was any indication.

 

But the smirk soon faded as Humphrey Lancaster kept hold of Richard's hand, his smile open and genuine. "You'll dine with us, I hope. And may it be the first of many. In fact," he added as he led Richard back toward the Warden's Lodgings, "we'll be celebrating my wife's birthday next week at the Savoy. I'd be delighted if you could come."

 

Somerset hissed something under his breath and Richard turned back to Lancaster with a smile to match the latter's. "The pleasure would be mine, Mr Lancaster, I assure you."

 

It was at dinner that Lancaster first mentioned his nephew Henry. The very name made Richard nearly choke on his claret, keeping his composure only through sheer force of will.

 

"...be ten years old this Christmas and all he wants are books." There was a note of indulgent exasperation in Lancaster's voice. "My poor brother John has been trying to teach him cricket but it simply won't take."

 

"Give him time, Cousin," Somerset drawled, his eyes on Richard. "I'm sure he'll follow in his father's footsteps sooner or later. We all do, don't we, York?"

 

Richard did not remember what he said in response. Something not at all clever; of that much he was certain. And now here he was, hovering in the doorway of the Savoy Ballroom like a dolt. Taking a deep breath, he plunged forward into a whirl of perfume, champagne, and laughter in search of Henry Lancaster. He might as well get the awkwardness out of the way.

 

However, within five minutes of stepping into the ballroom, Henry had ceased to exist. He was just reaching for a glass of champagne when a white-gloved hand snaked round his arm and a voice that did nothing for his nerves murmured throatily in his ear, "Dreadfully rude of me, I know, but I'm facing a fate worse than death. Do you waltz?"

 

Unable to conceive of any sort of response, let alone a coherent one, Richard abandoned Dutch courage and found himself spinning dizzily across the ballroom with possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Who was now studying him through unnervingly appraising blue eyes.

 

"Not much of a conversationalist, are you?"

 

"I'm afraid I have no idea what to say," he confessed, "having been commandeered for a waltz by a beautiful woman I've never met."

 

"You've already improved," she said, her smile inestimably wicked, at odds with the pale-blue gown that marked her as a debutante. "Cecily Neville. And thank you for indulging me."

 

"Richard York. You did mention a fate worse than death," Richard pointed out.

 

"My cousin Ralph."

 

"And a complete stranger is preferable? I could be Jack the Ripper."

 

Cecily Neville's laughter sparkled in the air like champagne bubbles and he wondered if one could get drunk without touching a drop. "At least I shan't die of boredom, then."

 

It was at that moment, with Strauss ringing in his ears and thoughts of cyanide-laced sherry a thousand miles away, that Richard York fell irrevocably in love.

 

Of course, in light of his present position, he was unable to do anything about it. As the waltz came to an end he reluctantly let her go, raising her hand to his lips. "Miss Neville, it was an honour to rescue you."

 

"_Enchantée_, Mr York," she said with a dazzling smile. "I shall be very displeased indeed if I do not see you again."

 

"I don't think I could bear to cause you displeasure." From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Somerset glowering at him and could not forbear a wink in the other's direction. "But I am being remiss. I should greet Mr and Mrs Lancaster."

 

Lips twisting in scorn, Miss Neville stepped back. "Beware the witch, Mr York. She swallows men alive."

 

Although his brows twitched upward at that, Richard offered her one last bow and retreated toward where Humphrey Lancaster was standing. Beside him was an auburn-haired, purple-clad lady of arresting, if not precisely beautiful, looks that he could only assume was Mrs Lancaster.

 

"Richard, delighted you could come." Lancaster shook his hand enthusiastically. "If I may present my wife?"

 

"Mrs Lancaster, a pleasure. And many happy returns."

 

"Ms Cobham, please," she said, voice deep and practically purring, with a pronounced American accent, "though my friends call me Eleanor. Humphrey's told me a little about you and I couldn't help but notice you dancing with that little Miss Neville."

 

Richard lowered his eyes, trying to hide his recognition of her name. Everybody, even in faraway corners of Wales, had heard about the high-ranking civil servant--referred to only as H.L.--who'd publicly abandoned his wife of three years, a Belgian countess of impeccable bloodlines but completely impoverished, to run off with an actress from New York. Eleanor Cobham's name, naturally, had been trumpeted to the world as a woman of loose morals but she didn't seem to care, least of all now she'd managed to marry her lover--Humphrey Lancaster. "A fortuitous accident, Mrs--er, Ms Cobham."

 

"Hm." Eleanor Cobham's eyes flickered up and down as though taking him in. "Don't fall too quickly, Mr York. Her father's got ambitions and he doesn't care who knows it."

 

"Eleanor, really," Lancaster murmured, sternness undercut by an embarrassed laugh. Richard couldn't help but wonder if he regretted losing his position for a woman, but it certainly didn't seem to be the case. "How many years do you have left in Oxford, Richard?"

 

"One, sir," said Richard. "I'm sure Somerset has told you everything about my situation." If it hadn't been for Somerset's particular joy in tormenting him, Richard was certain the word _servitor_ would have been little more than an arbitrary category, perhaps even a secret source of pride that he'd even been given the opportunity to attend Oxford in spite of his family's penury. But he could hear Somerset's laughter in all its drawling glory, and it seemed as though each of the innumerable snide insults he'd had directed at him were echoing in that infuriating sound.

 

"There's no shame in that, you know," Lancaster said, as though reading his mind. "My father didn't even attend university. He was a cadet at Sandhurst and went on to serve in Africa."

 

Before he returned to England to declare his cousin legally mad and deprive him of his estates. Before his son murdered Richard's father and made a fortune in diamonds from a gamble that should not have succeeded.

 

"Uncle Humphrey?" A child's voice piped up from a nearby bench and Richard found himself face-to-face with a small, chestnut-haired boy holding a book. He bore no resemblance whatsoever to Richard's hazy memories of the late Henry Lancaster who, he was certain, had been a terror even at ten years old. "Will there be cake soon?"

 

"Very soon, I promise," Lancaster replied, ruffling the boy's hair fondly. "This is Richard York, Henry. He's...a distant cousin, one might say."

 

One might, indeed. Henry was looking at him now, blue eyes limpid and trusting. "I do like cousins. I'm Henry Lancaster and I'm very pleased to meet you."

 

Richard nodded, instinctively looking for some trace of calculation in that face and finding nothing. "Likewise, Henry."

 

"Why have I not seen you before? I thought I'd met all my cousins by now."

 

Behind him Lancaster cleared his throat and Richard could not help but take some small, wicked joy in replying, "I've been very far away, I'm afraid. Wales, to be exact. We weren't welcome."

 

Henry frowned. "But that's very silly if you're my cousin."

 

"There was a quarrel, Henry," his uncle interjected, shooting Richard a warning look, "between his father and yours."

 

"Much as I hate to split hairs, Lancaster, it was slightly more than a quarrel." He could not keep the sharpness from the words, at once cursing them and lamenting their necessity. Lancaster may be kind, but it was kindness born of guilt and he would much rather forget his elder brother's actions. Richard could not share that particular attitude of _laissez-faire_, not when the world still looked down on him as a penniless rustic. "But, that being said, it is not the sort of discussion appropriate for a party."

 

Henry smiled, looking back and forth between them. "I would not quarrel with you, Cousin Richard. I don't like quarrels."

 

"I am grateful to hear it." Again, he kept his eyes on Lancaster, who still would not look back. "Perhaps I should go. I have a train to catch in the morning."

 

"There's no need for that, Richard," said Lancaster. "I did mean to ask you what it was you planned to do after leaving Oxford."

 

"I...hadn't really thought," said Richard, taken aback. "I should have liked to go to the Inns of Court, but it may be more beneficial for me to find employment directly."

 

"Do you wish to be a barrister, then?"

 

It was Richard's turn to lower his eyes uncomfortably. "I had hoped, sir. But it seems unlikely."

 

"I see." Lancaster said nothing for a few moments, apparently lost in thoughts. "Would you consider accepting an offer of assistance?"

 

"Sir?"

 

"It just so happens, Richard, that my brother John will be taking the silk next year, and I'm certain he would be happy to sponsor you at Lincoln's Inn." At Richard's visible astonishment, he smiled. "You seem a bright lad and clearly you are willing to work if your career at Oxford is any indication. Besides, I suspect John will need something to do with all of his newly acquired spare time, and an apprenticeship of sorts seems just the thing. Not to mention that he's to be married in less than a month and every man needs an occupation of his own to keep him from troubling his wife, right, my dear?"

 

Eleanor shot him an indulgent glare that Richard only half-noticed. "Mr Lancaster, I...it's too much. I couldn't possibly..."

 

Lancaster shook his head. "Harry's treatment of you and your mother was unnecessarily harsh. Please allow me to make some amends." There was no mention of Richard's father, which did not come as a surprise so much as a slight disappointment.

 

"Humphrey, really. You know it's bad form to talk of serious subjects at a party." At first, Richard nearly wheeled about, thinking it was Somerset at his elbow, but the man's peculiar accent confirmed it was not. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"

 

That the new arrival was a priest was surprise enough without the addition of Lancaster's expression and the name--"Beaufort."--practically spat.

 

"Uncle Beaufort!" echoed Henry, popping up from his seat. "You're back from New York."

 

"Couldn't miss the party, could I?"

 

Lancaster seemed of the opinion that he could miss the party and take himself to hell in the bargain, while Beaufort's placid smile revealed only the smallest hint of malicious glee as he made an ostentatious bow over Eleanor Cobham's hand. Richard studied him with a frown, trying to place the name and accent, both of which were decidedly un-English.

 

"Now," he said expansively, looking back at Richard, "I believe I was going to introduce myself. Beaufort Swinford Somerset, but do call me Beaufort."

 

"Richard York," he replied, shaking the priest's hand. "No relation to Edmund Somerset, are you?"

 

"That would be my dear nephew." His smile widened, as if he could see Richard's instinctive revulsion. "I believe he's mentioned you, unless there are two Richard Yorks at Exeter."

 

Richard bit back the retort, restricting himself to a shake of his head. "Not as I'm aware, sir."

 

"Uncle Beaufort?" Richard thanked God for the (very) small miracle of Henry Lancaster holding up a plate. "Uncle Humphrey says there shall be cake now. Will you come with me?"

 

"Of course, Henry."

 

As he followed the boy away, Richard did not restrain a sigh of relief. Beside him, Humphrey Lancaster rubbed his brow. "I apologise. He is...difficult."

 

"No more so than his nephew," Richard replied softly. "I'm accustomed to it."

 

Although he could feel the other's gaze on him, he did not elaborate.

 

***

 

Catherine Lancaster, née Vaillant, was quite pleased with widowhood for the most part. It was much like being a _débutante_ once more, except without all the rules. Her late husband had been obliging enough to leave her a fortune in addition to a diamond mine somewhere in the wilds of Africa, and her brothers-in-law were far too caught up in their own lives to pay her much mind at all. Indeed, they seemed to think it might have been far more convenient had she died with Harry in that awful jungle.

 

Well, John did, at the very least. Humphrey had problems enough that he would cheerfully ignore anything she did. Neither, however, would permit her to spend any excess of time with her nine-year-old son, concerned that she might be a bad influence.

 

She buried her face in her hands. The worst part about this dreadful situation was that dear priggish John would be proven right.

 

Lying on the desk in front of Catherine was a letter composed of no less than seven pages of florid endearments and lovesick threats. _To my angel and heart's darling, Catherine, why have you forgotten me? How can you when that night is singed--burnt, even--into my mind for all time?_ That night being her thirty-eighth birthday when she had foolishly allowed Humphrey to escort her to a Fancy Dress ball and feed her far too much champagne. It had been well-meant; Catherine had been complaining of her advanced age and Humphrey, all of three weeks older, had insisted they recapture their lost youth.

 

That, in fact, was the crux of the problem.

 

Humphrey had been mired in those horrid divorce proceedings for nearly six months by that point, and Eleanor had prudently accepted an offer to play the title role in _Phèdre_ in New York, leaving him mouldering in London on his own. Catherine certainly couldn't blame him for wanting to think about nothing but Viennese waltzes and gossip. Perhaps it was inevitable that, as a direct consequence of combining costumes and champagne, they lost one another and she found herself dancing--and flirting quite alarmingly--with a young man dressed as Henry the Eighth.

 

All she'd done was kiss him in the garden. And, if she were honest with herself, although she had quite enjoyed it at the time, the subsequent mess had taken all the fun out of the memory.

 

In short, she couldn't get rid of him.

 

What would otherwise have been a source of unbearable embarrassment--the fact that he was an undergraduate in Oxford and more than fifteen years her junior--turned out to be a blessing in disguise. Hemmed in by his college walls, he at least couldn't pursue her in person, even if she was forced to endure fortnightly letters declaring his undying love. Letters, thankfully, were easy to destroy.

 

But term was over now and Edmund Somerset had returned to London after finishing his degree. Catherine couldn't very well leave in the middle of the Season, nor did she have any interest in doing so. Indeed, until this latest letter arrived, she had thought the nearly two-month-long hiatus might mean he'd found a more suitable object of affection. Sadly, it seemed he had only suffered through exams.

 

The only consolation she could derive was that the boy at least knew how to conduct himself in public. She'd even managed several minutes' conversation with him at her sister-in-law's birthday ball--that, as much as the absence of letters had lulled her into a false sense of confidence. But it was not to be. Alas.

 

Finally, faced with no other option, she decided to ignore her misgivings and confide in Humphrey.

 

"_Edmund_?" he nearly choked on the pastis he had just attempted to swallow. "Dear Lord Almighty, woman, what possessed you?"

 

Catherine buried her face in her hands. "I maintain this is your fault. You insisted we recapture our youth and this is what happens."

 

"You have to tell him it's impossible."

 

"How many times do you think I've tried? The skin of the adolescent male is thicker than elephant hide, Humphrey. You can't possibly get past it without one of those awful rifles like the one in the study at Lancaster House." It had belonged to Harry and Humphrey's grandfather, or so she'd been told, along with a truly hideous collection of exotic hunting trophies now gathering dust in the attic.

 

Humphrey took a very large drink and paused to savour it before setting down the glass with a thud. "So you have no interest in him?"

 

"Humphrey, for shame!" She swatted him with her glove. "What sort of loose woman do you take me for?"

 

"I refuse to answer that question." After another sip, Humphrey settled his chin on his hand and frowned thoughtfully. "So he won't listen to you. We need to come up with something he can't possibly misconstrue."

 

"I have no desire to be caught up in a scandal. That is precisely what I'm trying to avoid."

 

"And he should know better, at any rate! You're practically old enough to be his mother."

 

"Pardon?" Catherine's voice sharpened in protest. "You're a fine one to talk, Humphrey Lancaster, or should I ask your former wife?"

 

"Sorry, sorry." He couldn't suppress the sheepish grin that inspired. "You're right. I'm a cad."

 

"You are," she said before taking a delicate sip from her own glass. "You are happy, aren't you, Humphrey? After all that's happened?"

 

His smile reached his eyes now. "I should be slightly happier if my career with the Foreign Office hadn't evaporated so completely, but...yes, I am, Catherine, more so than I'd ever expected to be."

 

Reaching across the table, she squeezed his hand. "I am very glad to hear it, _mon cher_."

 

"But yours is the problem that needs to be solved," he said. "This stinks of Beaufort."

 

"_Sacré bleu_, Humphrey, not everything can be traced back to Beaufort! I admit," she added, waving down his protests, "that the man is a sanctimonious pig. But I suspect this is simply Edmund Somerset doing what silly young men do."

 

"Not to mention making even sillier assumptions about you. You say you've told him to leave you alone?"

 

"Not to his face, I admit," Catherine said. "After his first letter, I wrote to him to explain that I had no interest. He kept writing afterward and I started ignoring them, hoping that might cool his ardour but it doesn't seem to have helped."

 

"Then clearly you need to tell him to his face." Humphrey drained his glass. "You're a respectable widow with a son. This can't go on."

 

"_Bien_," she sighed. "What do you think we should do?"

 

The plan was fairly simple, as these things go. One of the highlights of this year's Season was John's marriage to the daughter of a Brussels financier, to be held at Carnarvon Hall. There would be any number of opportunities for Catherine to draw Edmund Somerset aside in a reasonably discreet manner.

 

As the car swung round the curved driveway, Catherine shivered. She had avoided Carnarvon for many reasons, all of them connected with her late husband, whose portrait hung in the entrance hall like a magnificent shadow looming over all who walked past.

 

Harry. _Nom de Dieu_, she had been so very naïve when she married him, madly in love with the bright-haired, beautiful man who had emerged unscathed--at least visibly--from the wilds of the Transvaal with a fortune in diamonds and a face that revealed nothing. Every girl in Paris had fancied herself the new Madame Lancaster but it had been Catherine he pursued, who had all but given up the idea of getting married after her family had lost its fortune and her father had announced in public that he was made of glass and could not be touched. No family wanted penury _and_ madness in their blood, least of all madness that had been announced to all of Parisian society. Except, evidently, Harry Lancaster.

 

She knew, of course, of his family's history, the shadow of madness that had nearly consumed her elder sister Isabelle, married briefly to one Richard Perrivale and now dead in childbirth from her second marriage. It was Catherine's suspicion that her sister had never recovered from the murder--no doubt in Isabelle's mind, it was a murder--of her first husband. And then his murderer's son had appeared in Paris, speaking dazzling riddles and offering her the world.

 

Never mind that it was Harry's interference in Africa--although nobody had thought to explain to her exactly how it happened--that had destroyed her father's fortunes and her own. Never mind that Catherine still recalled clear as glass the nightmares her sister had suffered on her return from England, the single name over and over, _Richard, they've killed Richard_. Catherine drank of Harry Lancaster's sparkling words and fell desperately in love.

 

It was Isabelle he'd always wanted--she discovered that only after the wedding and told herself it was futile to envy a ghost. And then, suddenly, Harry was gone, dead and buried somewhere in Brazil, and Catherine wondered if she'd even known her husband.

 

The portrait was nothing short of magnificent; Harry meeting the artist's eyes as if he were on the verge of stepping out of the canvas, the expanse of Carnarvon spread out behind him. The young man who had singlehandedly swept the tottering Perrivale family fortune to the heights of its heyday. Catherine looked at him for several moments until startled out of her reverie by the arrival of her son, who seemed to resemble neither her nor his father.

 

He was such a serious boy, her Henry. So quiet and thoughtful, weighing every word before he spoke. But he was no less affectionate for that and threw himself laughingly into her arms as if it had been months instead of weeks since he had last seen her. "Mama! I've missed you!"

 

"And I you, _petit_," she murmured, brushing her lips across his hair. Humphrey had remarked once that he better resembled his grandfather, a man Catherine had never met, but it was difficult to see her sweet little Henry in the frowning portrait that hung in the upstairs gallery. "I've brought your favourite meringues, just as you asked."

 

The gap-toothed smile brought a lump to her throat. "May we have them in the garden? You haven't met Dauphine and Uncle Humphrey says I can't bring her inside until she's older."

 

"And who is Dauphine?" Catherine allowed him to drag her through the parlour to the paved terrace overlooking Carnarvon's magnificent gardens. Henry reached into a basket beside the tea-table and held up a tiny, furry shape with absurdly long ears. "Oh, I see. _Bonjour_, Dauphine."

 

The puppy yawned and gave Henry's hand a desultory lick, prompting a quite unexpected memory of the dog Isabelle had doted on when they were girls. She and Isabelle had each taken two of her litter, and Catherine's own Clairette had accompanied her to England. Perhaps it was only right that Henry should have one of her puppies. "She's always sleeping. I wanted her to sleep with me, but Uncle Humphrey says she must stay in the stables with her mother."

 

"Well, of course, _petit_," Catherine said, settling herself in one of the wicker chairs and extracting the familiar box of meringues from her bag. "She is still very small and needs her _maman_."

 

Henry frowned as he took a bite of a meringue. "I suppose so. Uncle John says he'll have Master Richmond train her to hunt. But all she ever does is sleep so I don't think she would like it."

 

"Well, so did you when you were her age," Catherine said, laughing. "I am sure your Dauphine will make a fine hunting dog someday."

 

"Mama, did you know I have a new cousin?" As if he had only just recalled this, Henry bounced slightly on the chair. "I met him at Aunt Eleanor's party. His name is Richard and Uncle Humphrey tells me we shall get on splendidly."

 

"I have no doubt you shall," she said. Though her thoughts had drifted to Edmund Somerset once again and she cursed him silently for having made such an awful mess of everything.

 

Humphrey insisted on reminding her of what she needed to do in low tones as they settled into the pews the next morning. Beside him was that young man she recalled somewhat from Eleanor's party--perhaps the Richard Henry had mentioned?--and a woman Catherine had never met but whom Humphrey introduced with visible nervousness as Anne York. To Catherine's unasked question, he mouthed 'Later'.

 

However, Humphrey's hesitation turned out to be the last thing on her mind by the end of the night. Having succeeded in finding Edmund Somerset, Catherine had led him to what had once been a second parlour and had just begun to explain in no uncertain terms that she had no interest whatsoever in him.

 

"I don't understand, Catherine--"

 

"Oh, for God's sake, stop _calling_ me that!" she hissed. "It will not happen again. It was a silly mistake and it meant nothing to me."

 

He looked rather like a wounded puppy. "But I _love_ you."

 

Catherine had to close her eyes to regain her bearings. "No, you don't. You're infatuated; you barely even _know_ me."

 

Whatever he might have said to that would remain a mystery, as the door flew open to reveal the last person Catherine would have expected.

 

"_John_?"

 

"What in _hell_ is going on here?" Sir John Lancaster, QC, notorious for his discipline both within the courtroom and out of it, strode into the room, his cheeks flushed with anger. "Somerset, you had bloody well better explain yourself--"

 

"John, for goodness' sake, nothing's happened," Catherine interjected, placing her hand on his arm. He flung it aside. "John, what are you _doing_?"

 

"Sir John, I swear I didn't mean anything by--"

 

"By _what_?" roared John. "Don't think I haven't heard what you did, you devil! To a respectable widow with a child! What sort of unnatural, perverted--"

 

"But I didn't _do_ anything!" Edmund protested, trying to preserve what little remained of his dignity. "Who told you?"

 

"So you admit there's something to tell--"

 

"I do nothing of the sort, sir!"

 

"I've no interest in your protests. Get out of here, you swine. And I won't say it twice."

 

After Edmund's ignominious exit, Catherine sank against the table, face buried in her hands. "John, what on earth has got into you? The boy was harmless. He was telling the truth."

 

"Do you actually mean to defend the man who..." He couldn't look at her when he said it, "took advantage of you?"

 

"He did no such thing!" A fierce blush rose in Catherine's cheeks. "There were letters. Nothing more. I didn't mean to encourage him, but it seems I might have done it by accident. John, you can't just barge into situations without thinking--"

 

"I had reason to believe the Somerset boy had been imposing upon you, Catherine. And if what you tell me is true, it's all to the good that I got rid of him!"

 

Catherine sighed. As if in answer to her unsaid prayer, Humphrey appeared in the doorway. "What the devil just happened here? Somerset looked as though he'd taken a punch to the gut."

 

With a groan that mingled frustration and fury, Catherine stalked past him out of the parlour. As she was returning to the ballroom, she caught sight of young Richard York. His eyes were bright with laughter and he hid his smile too slowly.

 

"Mrs Lancaster."

 

"You told John," she said softly. "You overheard me talking to Humphrey and you told John. Have you any idea what you've done?"

 

Like an electric light bulb, the smile flickered out and he studied her with an expression that reminded her uncannily of Harry's portrait. "Rest assured, Madam, if any man deserved abject humiliation, it is Edmund Somerset."

 

"If I were a priest, I would be obliged to remind you that vengeance is the Lord's province," said Catherine. "But I will merely point out that Mr Somerset is not a man to take any humiliation, abject or otherwise, lightly."

 

"Nor am I, and now he knows it." He stepped back and bowed gracefully. "It was not my intention to trouble you in any way, and it did seem as though you wished to be rid of him. I apologise for any inconvenience to you, Mrs Lancaster."

 

She could not remember what she said to him, only that she shivered as she watched him return to the ballroom as if something had walked over her grave.

 

***

 

It was a source of considerable disappointment to Cecily Neville that the young man Richard York did not reappear for at least three weeks--although she would never admit to having counted the days. This was all the more vexing in light of the fact that her mother and her sisters had all seen her dancing with him at Eleanor Cobham's birthday ball. Indeed, they had drawn her aside immediately afterward to demand why she had abandoned her cousin when her dance card was full to dance with a man to whom she had not been introduced.

 

"But Ralph was talking of nothing but _newts_, Mamma. If I'd had to listen to him for another second, I might have perished from boredom." Cecily pouted prettily. "It's surely not a crime to preserve one's own life."

 

"Stop being overdramatic, Cecily," snapped her mother. "Who was that young man?"

 

"I haven't the faintest idea, Mamma, but he was a delightful dancer."

 

Her mother glared but vouchsafed nothing more. And Cecily had gone to bed, utterly convinced that her erstwhile waltz partner would darken their door within two days.

 

After a week, she told herself in no uncertain terms that she did not care one whit for a gentleman who lacked the breeding to call on a young lady with whom he had most assuredly flirted. And during a Viennese waltz, no less! Every time she thought of it, she was hard-pressed not to throw the nearest object at the furthest wall.

 

Finally, she caught sight of him seated with the Lancasters at the wedding of John Lancaster and Annabel Vaillant--no relation, she was often disposed to say with a disdainful sniff, to the Vaillants of Paris, who were clearly all mad as hatters--and had to force herself to keep her eyes firmly directed forward when what she most wanted to do was march up to him and insist upon an explanation. But that would not do at all, even when--especially when--he glanced back and their eyes met briefly before she, through very great effort, pretended intense interest in her hymnal.

 

It was on the steps of the church that he found her, catching her gloved hand as she turned to leave. "I have nothing to say to you, sir."

 

"Miss Neville, have I done something to offend you?" As though he couldn't know. Cecily wrested her hand from his and glared. "I see that I have," he murmured, lashes lowered over those rather lovely blue-grey eyes--but she would not think of that.

 

"And you pretend not to know why."

 

"I confess I don't at all," he protested.

 

Cecily straightened, trying to retain the shreds of her dignity. "You danced with me. And then you disappeared. That was horribly rude of you."

 

"Did you want to see me?" When she looked at him, he was struggling to hide a smile. "I hadn't planned to come to London at all, Miss Neville, so I couldn't stay. But I promise you I was awfully distracted."

 

"I might forgive you," she said, somewhat mollified. "But I hadn't expected to see you here."

 

"I'm a...distant relation, one might say."

 

"To the Lancasters?" Cecily frowned. "Then where on earth have you been? My father was a great friend of little Henry's father and he never mentioned anybody named York."

 

She realised even as she said it that she'd hit a nerve. But before she could do anything about it, a woman's voice spoke up from behind Mr York. "Good Heavens, Richard, there you are. Why did you disappear so..." as she caught sight of Cecily, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Ah. I think I see."

 

"Mother, this is Miss Cecily Neville." She could see the resemblance in the smile, though their colouring was quite different. "Miss Neville, my mother."

 

"Miss Neville, it is a pleasure," that lady said, taking her hand. "My son talked of you..." with a sly grin at him, "a great deal, I must admit. More so than his exams, certainly."

 

"Did he, now?" Cecily eyed Mr York, whose cheeks had flushed a little. "I can't imagine why."

 

"Mother, really." He did not sound stern in the least. "Will you save me a dance at the reception, Miss Neville? I will try to make amends."

 

She lowered her own eyes, regarding him through a web of lashes. Much to her satisfaction, she could hear an indrawn breath. "I'll consider it. It was lovely meeting you, Mrs York."

 

Swinging her parasol onto her shoulder, she strolled away, aware that he couldn't look anywhere but at her. So distracted was she by the glow of pride that she did not notice her father until he had taken her arm. "How do you know Anne Mortimer, Cecily?"

 

"Anne Mortimer?" she echoed, frowning. "Who do you mean, Papa?"

 

"The lady over there..." He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the pair. "Well, I'm dashed. That must be the son. It would seem a reconciliation is in order."

 

"I beg your pardon, Papa?"

 

He patted her hand. "Nothing to concern your pretty head about, Cis. Now, we should find your mother."

 

Cecily's debut had been delayed by the marriages of her two elder sisters and her brother, respectively, but there seemed little doubt that she would find herself engaged to somebody by the end of this Season, even if festivities had been dampened somewhat by the death of His Majesty the King not even two months ago. The question was who. And, unbeknownst to her parents, Cecily was well on her way to deciding for herself.

 

Mother was more forthcoming even if Cecily could tell she meant to keep a close eye on her that night. Apparently there had been a very great scandal when _she_ was a girl involving the family that had formerly owned Carnarvon, and someone had even turned up in a madhouse! It was dreadfully exciting, rather like the novels she'd borrowed from Anne that had made Father disapprove so.

 

Mr York, it seemed, was a disgraced cousin recently returned to the fold, whose father had been _murdered_ at a hunting party over a diamond mine. She'd known dear Henry Lancaster's father was an adventurer--how could he not be, having died in some sweltering South American jungle?--but she hadn't realised he was _that_ interesting.

 

Of course, she couldn't possibly bring it up. That would be gauche. But it did make her wonder about Richard York even more, if that were possible.

 

She decided to wear blue again, this time darker, and while her mother wasn't looking, she stole a pot of rouge from Anne's trunk. There was something quite daring about how her mouth curved in the mirror, the red hectic against her skin. Quickly, before her mother could notice, she snatched up her fan and hurried from the room.

 

Her success in arriving fashionably late meant that she'd missed what seemed to have been quite the commotion in one of the parlours. According to a delighted Anne, Edmund Somerset had been caught in the act of trying to force himself on poor Catherine Lancaster who, though quite good-looking, was nearly twice his age!

 

It was then that she caught sight of Richard York and tried to tell herself his smile didn't set her heart to pounding. There was something unutterably wicked in the expression, as if all the world were his for the taking. All thoughts of scandals forgotten, Cecily crossed the room to where her mother stood, managing with some effort to stop looking at him.

 

Thankfully, before her mother could say anything to her, the bride and groom entered the room. If Sir John looked a trifle flushed, nobody was indelicate enough to remark upon it.

 

As was customary, they led the first dance and Cecily obediently gave her arm to Cousin Ralph when other guests were motioned to join them. It seemed someone had warned him, for he said nothing of newts or any other reptiles. Unfortunately, this led to a rather uncomfortable silence for the duration of the dance.

 

Ralph had barely led her to the edge of the dancers when Richard York intercepted them. "I believe you promised me a dance, Miss Neville."

 

"I told you I would consider it," she replied, on the edge of laughter. "And I shall."

 

"Cis, don't you plan to introduce me?" Ralph demanded from her other side. "I'm her cousin, Ralph Neville."

 

"Richard York," he replied, inclining his head for a bare second before looking at Cecily again. "I can wait."

 

And she made him wait, though she had to fight to keep her eyes from following him all the while. It was exquisitely torturous, as if she could feel him looking back at her. _Playing with fire, aren't we, Cis?_ But she didn't care. She'd waited for three weeks. He could spare a few hours.

 

Much to her satisfaction, he gave up before she did.

 

It was only appropriate that he chose another waltz and that, echoing her own presumption of three weeks before, he waited until she'd already started dancing with one of her brother's friends from Cambridge. She felt his hand on her arm and, through sheer force of will, turned only slowly.

 

"If I may claim that dance, Miss Neville?"

 

Bestowing a gracious curtsey upon her shocked partner, Cecily spun into Richard York's arms. "I suppose you might."

 

Around them, the entire world seemed to recede, fade into a blur. Leaning just close enough for propriety, she murmured, "I thought you'd never ask."

 

The answering smile left her oddly breathless as she placed her hand in his. As they spun across the ballroom it seemed to Cecily that she was dancing at the edge of the world, that if she just took one step she might fall forever. She tilted her head backward until the chandeliers blurred into Roman candles and she began to laugh.

 

"You're pleased," he said, laughter darkening his voice.

 

Cecily looked him in the eyes and, before she could think twice, said, "I always fancied the thought of falling in love during a waltz."

 

Though the music still rose and fell somewhere in the background and the entire world still spun in delirious circles, she waited in breathless suspension for him to speak. "Until three weeks ago, I would never have considered the idea."

 

"Do you mean to imply that I've changed your mind?" she teased, the words all but tripping from her tongue. "You flatter me, Mr York."

 

"Well, did you mean to imply that you might consider falling in love with me during a waltz?"

 

"A woman must keep _some_ secrets, sir."

 

Too soon, the music ended and they spun to a halt. Cecily stepped back as if electrified, her eyes fixed on his. After a second's casting about--during which she saw her mother thankfully distracted by one of her friends and caught sight of a curtained corridor just behind her--she heard herself saying, low and quick, "Follow me."

 

The words echoed in her head, and she could feel herself taking a step over the edge. Beneath her the sky spread out in a net of stars. She smiled, and leapt.

 

_Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?_ Words she'd overheard at one of the grander Society balls, laughing words that had earned the speaker a swat with an impossibly beautiful lady's fan. Cecily had thought to herself that she'd never have hit a man who spoke thus to her, and she briefly wished she remembered who the man was so she could tell him he was right.

 

She did not dare look back but felt Mr--_Richard's_ hand curve round hers as she stepped into the corridor. His fingers were warm even through her gloves. When she saw the alcove near the window, she hesitated barely a second before pulling him toward her and turning to meet his lips with hers. The thought occurred to her in passing that this was precisely the sort of behaviour for which her mother would lock her in her room and throw away the key. She found, however, that she did not care one bit.

 

"You've ruined my reputation, you know," she said, words muffled against his mouth. "I shan't forgive you."

 

"I couldn't bear it if you did." His fingers twined through hers and she held them fast.


	3. Part II

_ii. 'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands,  
But more when envy breeds unkind division--  
There comes the ruin, there breeds confusion.  
\--Henry VI, Part I (IV.i.192-4)_

 

Humphrey Lancaster hadn't intended to argue with his brother on his wedding day. In fact, he'd had quite the opposite in mind. Unfortunately, certain things were simply unavoidable.

 

He'd managed to get a garbled story out of Edmund Somerset after handing him a flask and wincing as the boy threw back a truly alarming amount of not-inexpensive whisky in one gulp. Something about John walking in on him and Catherine with precisely the wrong idea, clearly put there by someone who hated him, and he strongly suspected York.

 

Humphrey sighed. He could hardly point fingers, but it was quite discouraging when otherwise sensible young men arbitrarily decided to hate one another.

 

And now York had disappeared, to God only knew where, and Humphrey couldn't hear his side of the story.

 

Catherine had settled herself on a window seat with a stolen glass of cognac from the library. "Did Harry show you the secret spirit collection, then?"

 

"The hidden cabinet behind that silly-looking painting? No, I saw him open it for you once," she said with a small smile. "You know I never meant for this to happen, Humphrey."

 

"Of course you didn't. You haven't seen young York, have you? I hope he'll be kind enough to explain himself."

 

"He was dancing a moment ago with...oh, what _is_ her name? Sir Ralph Neville's youngest girl." Unexpectedly, she smiled. "He'll be in for a surprise if he expects anything but trouble from that one."

 

"Oh?"

 

"A lady who knows her own mind, _mon cher_. But perhaps she'll turn his thoughts to better things." She took a sip of cognac. "He clearly meant harm."

 

"Well," Humphrey paused to think this over, "from what I can gather, there's bad blood between those two from Oxford. Edmund has always been..._superior_, if you take my meaning. And I expect he thought Richard a suitable object for scorn. I certainly can't blame him for wanting his own back."

 

"It just seems so..._underhanded_." She shook her head. "_Mais ça suffit_. What did John say to you?"

 

"Aside from the usual?" he laughed. "He told me off for ruining his wedding, reminded me of my own indiscretions, and informed me that if I hadn't dealt with the problem by the time he and Annabel return from their honeymoon...well, he didn't quite manage to figure out what dire threats he intended to heap upon my head, but I'm sure he'll think of something."

 

"That sounds like our John," she agreed, muffling her laughter behind her hand. "Oh, there is your missing Mr York. Although..." her grin widened mischievously, "I think it's quite clear he's not thinking about poor Edmund."

 

She had a point. The young man looked distinctly dishevelled, and was having difficulties hiding a smile. The appearance of young Cecily Neville several moments later, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, confirmed his suspicions. Something in her smile reminded him rather of Eleanor and he laughed ruefully. "I can't fault his choice."

 

But Catherine was frowning. "Do you think that's wise? The Nevilles have a great deal of money and influence."

 

"All the better for him, say I. Harry managed to turn the Perrivale estate into the nastiest legal tangle I've ever seen so it could be decades before Richard saw a penny of it--assuming he should even be so lucky. If he can marry money, so much the better."

 

"I suppose it's wrong for me to judge him on such short acquaintance, but..." She trailed off with an expressive shrug. "I don't know, Humphrey."

 

"It's just young men's posturing. If you'd seen the things Harry got up to--" He stopped, turning aside. He'd never quite come up with the best way to discuss his dead brother with Catherine--not that it was easy to discuss Harry with anybody, really. "It's nothing to concern us, Catherine. They'll need to deal with it themselves like gentlemen."

 

As the weeks wore on, Catherine admitted grudgingly to Humphrey that she might have been wrong. Richard York and Edmund Somerset barely spoke three words to one another. Edmund, admittedly, was caught up in his new position with the Home Office, and Richard equally caught up in courting Cecily Neville.

 

Eleanor roared with laughter when he told her of it. "That little Neville girl? She fancies herself the Queen of Sheba. It'll take her down a peg or two to marry Robert York's son!"

 

Humphrey hadn't believed that for a minute; Sir Ralph was nothing if not canny, and he'd succeeded in marrying all his children exceptionally well. And Humphrey had heard from the family solicitors that Neville had been asking about the missing Perrivale will, the one in which Richard York's maternal uncle had been designated the rightful heir to the estate.

 

Not for the first time, he wished Harry were still alive. He and John had things well in hand, but they wouldn't live forever and Henry...

 

He sighed. The boy was young yet. He had time enough to grow into his inheritance. And Richard would have enough to keep him busy once he took the bar. Handing him over to John had been a good move. Whatever one thought about John as a person, it was impossible to fault him as a barrister, and once Richard had his own reputation and family to consider he'd have better things to do than chase after a missing--perhaps even mythical--will.

 

And, despite Catherine's misgivings, he couldn't help but admire little Cecily Neville wreaking havoc on their corner of London society. After all, the man who had fallen in love with Eleanor Cobham when he saw her play Cleopatra could hardly deny that he had a romantic streak. Even John didn't seem to disapprove, although he made some acid remark about overly bold young ladies who clearly hadn't been raised properly.

 

Of course, John had no patience for wilful females of any persuasion. Their younger sister Philippa had heard no end of lectures on the subject of inappropriate behaviour ever since she'd announced her decision to join the WSPU. Humphrey had no particular objection to suffragettes; as a lifelong proponent of various lost causes, he could certainly understand the appeal.

 

"But, Humphrey, you _don't_ understand," Philippa sighed. "What have you got against women's suffrage?"

 

"I've told you a thousand times, Pip, I've got nothing against it! I just can't conceive of why ladies have any interest--it's a bloody great nuisance, to be quite frank. You elect your member of Parliament and watch, mired in boredom, as nothing ever gets done."

 

"But that isn't the _point_, Humphrey!" She raised the cup of tea to her lips, the perfectly balanced posture at odds with the dirt under her fingernails and smeared across her face. They had made quite the stir when they first walked into the teashop and Philippa had practically inhaled a plate of sausages. Humphrey could hardly blame her; after all, what else could one possibly expect from a lady who had chained herself to a post in Trafalgar Square in the middle of a demonstration? He didn't suppose Scotland Yard felt obliged to feed disturbers of the peace. "The point is that women deserve to have _some_ say in the realm's future."

 

"Well, of course they do! What do you think husbands are for?"

 

"_Humphrey_\--"

 

"Can't we stop arguing, Pip? You should be grateful I fetched you myself and didn't let John come. Although I don't doubt he's got a lecture planned for when he next sees you."

 

She groaned. "I don't want to think about John. It'll make me lose my appetite and they've got cherry crumble."

 

Humphrey glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the shop's owner setting down what indeed appeared to be a plate of cherry crumble doused in cream. Philippa was staring at it with the same concentration she ordinarily reserved for Mrs or Miss Pankhurst and, with a sigh, he gave in. "Oh, very well. Cherry crumble it is."

 

"And I will have you know, Humphrey," she insisted through a mouthful of crumble several moments later, "that if women were in charge, we wouldn't be mired in this ridiculous situation with the Kaiser."

 

"You mean to say you'd have solved the entire problem over tea and cherry crumble?"

 

She threw a sugar lump at him. "I mean to say, Humphrey, that you men are so busy trying to prove your superiority to one another that you don't even think about how much easier things would be if you simply _listened_ to each other."

 

"And you mean to tell me women listen to one another?" Humphrey snorted. "I've endured enough Afternoons during the Season to know better than that."

 

"Well, at least we don't insist on building bally Dreadnoughts all the time!" With a snort of her own, she buried herself in the crumble. "Thank goodness Henry's got more sense than that."

 

"Henry is a child--"

 

"He's cleverer than you think, Humphrey. Just you wait and see."

 

He knew she was right about that at the very least--Henry _was_ a clever boy. His tutors gave nothing but glowing reports not just of his progress, but of his demeanour: quiet, mild-mannered, and obedient. In some long-ago time, he might have made the perfect monk.

 

But there were no monks in London now. And Humphrey decided that it might be best for the boy to spend more time around others his own age. That he had a place at Eton was assumed--after all, the Lancaster men had been Etonians since time immemorial--and John approved wholeheartedly.

 

John also approved wholeheartedly of Richard York. For this, Humphrey could not help but take the credit since he knew John had a particularly selective memory for unpleasant things Harry had done and would have been content to forget about the events of that house party. It therefore came as a great surprise indeed when he discovered why John had invited him to his club for dinner.

 

"I did have something I need to discuss with you, Humphrey. It concerns both of us, and Henry as well."

 

"Out with it, then," Humphrey said, content to lean back in the creaking leather chair and let the excellent dinner settle somewhat.

 

John pursed his lips and looked at the fire, piled high against the November chill. "Edward York made a second will. A later will, dated just before his departure for the Transvaal."

 

Several dozen questions crowded Humphrey's mind, but he finally decided on, "How on earth did you find this out?"

 

"That's not the point, Humphrey. Harry paid off a solicitor to keep it secret. Harry _suborned_ Edward York until he disinherited his own nephew." He stared uncomfortably into his glass of port. "I knew something wasn't quite right about that whole affair, but I didn't want to think too hard on it."

 

"Harry never did encourage one to think very hard on his actions," Humphrey said. "You can't blame yourself for what you didn't see."

 

"That's not the only thing, Humphrey." John raised his head and looked Humphrey directly in the face. "Father never destroyed Richard Perrivale's will. The will that left everything to Edmund Mortimer. I can't imagine why--"

 

"Guilt?"

 

John glared at him. "Maybe. But that isn't the point, Humphrey. In legal terms, Richard York is just as entitled to the Perrivale inheritance as Henry is." He took a shallow breath. "And it is my intention not to tell him."

 

"And have it on your conscience?"

 

"If I can restore him to what is his by right of his father," John steepled his hands, "I think that can be the end of it."

 

"And the Perrivale will?" Humphrey leant forward. "John, you can't just let these things sit about until someone with far fewer scruples finds them."

 

"I _know_," John said, burying his face in his hands. "But it's a legally binding document, Humphrey. You ask me about my conscience..."

 

"And what happens when he _does_ find it?" Humphrey demanded. "You're training him yourself, John. You know he will."

 

"By then, he'll have no need of it, God willing. He's a bright boy, and between the York inheritance and Miss Neville's portion, he'll hardly be wanting." John took a large gulp of port. "And Henry will be old enough to defend his own, if it should come to that. I just..." he sighed, "I cannot conceive of what Harry was thinking. Did he honestly believe I wouldn't find out about Edward York?"

 

Humphrey sighed. "Harry expected to live far longer than he did; I'd wager you anything that solicitor wouldn't have breathed a word if he weren't dead. And, to be perfectly frank, Johnny, you never did strike him--or me--as the sort of person who would question anything."

 

"I almost let it lie," John said softly. "I found the Perrivale will quite by accident. Father had hidden it very well. Once I realised what it was, I nearly threw it into the fire. But I couldn't, Humphrey. Not after I'd learnt about Harry..."

 

"You knew what Harry was capable of doing, John. You always knew."

 

John nodded wordlessly. They watched one another in silence for a few moments before Humphrey drained the last of his drink and stood.

 

"You can trust me, Johnny."

 

"I know." John looked up at him with an odd, painful smile. "I know I can, Humphrey."

 

It was most assuredly not a coincidence that, within a week of John's revelation, Sir Ralph Neville gave consent for his daughter to marry Richard York. The wedding date was set for July of the next year, at the height of the Season, and Eleanor whispered wickedly to him that she'd rather like to set a bet on how early the young pair's first child would be.

 

Humphrey had, rather foolishly, taken her up on it and, at the first party they attended after the opening of the Season--the first of any size that John and his wife had hosted--found himself provisionally in debt to Eleanor for one shopping trip to Paris.

 

The clock had just struck eleven when Eleanor rather smugly pointed out that John's protégé and his fiancée had disappeared and suggested that Humphrey might do well to find them before he lost their wager. So Humphrey struck off and realised rather quickly that she might be right.

 

There were two empty champagne glasses on the garden wall, near the entrance to the conservatory where John paid his gardeners exorbitant sums of money to indulge his wife's love of exotic plants. And, rather unexpectedly, a fan.

 

Humphrey picked it up--a delicate ivory-and-silk thing, painted with white roses. And, from the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw something move in the conservatory. As he stepped closer to the door, he could make out a flash of white and gold amongst the moon-splashed ferns and heard the low murmur of a man's voice.

 

"Are you sure?" If there was a response, it was out of earshot.

 

The first thing he saw when he opened the door was the dinner jacket discarded on the tiles with a pair of white ladies' evening gloves. As for their owners, they were tangled together unmistakably on a pile of sacking and picnic blankets. The moonlight spilled through the glass roof to catch the gleam of pearls and silver cufflinks, illuminating flashes of pale skin and burgundy silk.

 

It was the colour that jogged his memory, and he retreated on instinct. However, the fan slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with an audible clatter, and he found himself the object of two pairs of horrified eyes. Richard was the first to move, instinctively blocking his fiancée from view. It was all Humphrey could do to keep from laughing aloud, even if his bank account was already wincing at the thought of Eleanor stepping through the doors of Paquin's _salon_ because he'd forgotten what it meant to be young and thoughtless and madly in love.

 

"Mr Lancaster."

 

"Richard. Miss Neville," he added, catching a glimpse of bright hair tumbling in disarray across Richard's arm. "I appear to be interrupting."

 

"Mr Lancaster, I must ask you not to tell Sir John--"

 

Before Humphrey could say anything, Miss Neville spoke up. "It is my hope, Mr Lancaster, that you of all people would not be so hypocritical as to say a word to anybody." He could just catch a glimpse of her face in the slant of the moonlight, all flushed cheeks and reddened lips, blue eyes meeting his boldly, almost insolently. "It hardly seems fair play for Antony to lecture anybody on the subject of love."

 

"Sir?" Richard was looking at him too, now, a smile tugging at his mouth. "What say you?"

 

It was presumptuous, to say the very least. But they were due to be married in less than two months, and he certainly couldn't claim the little miss was wrong. "I hadn't realised anyone still thought of me that way."

 

Miss Neville lowered her eyes without a trace of demureness. "When one is fifteen, sir, that is what catches one's attention."

 

Humphrey smiled. "Be very happy it wasn't my brother who found you. And, for further reference," he pointed to one of the potted palms near the door, "there's a key underneath that pot. I suggest you lock the door after me."

 

He did tell Eleanor later that night, smiling indulgently as she howled with laughter. "Oh, I _wish_ I'd been there! Did she really call you Antony? If she weren't such a stiff-necked little snob, I might like her just for that."

 

"But I am Antony, aren't I?" Humphrey bent close to press his lips to her shoulder. "Even now."

 

Eleanor's fingers twined through his and he met her eyes in the mirror, the light of laughter oddly muted. "If it be love indeed, tell me how much."

 

"There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned," he said, the words muffled against her skin. "For you make hungry where most you satisfy--"

 

"_That_ isn't Antony," she protested, sternness undercut by a gasp as his teeth grazed her neck. Twisting away, she faced him, one hand against his chest, her voice pitched low and purring, "Eternity was in our lips and eyes, bliss in our brows' bent; none our parts so poor but was a race of heaven--" Slowly, deliberately, she kissed him.

 

It had been just such a kiss--stolen in a dressing room at the Théâtre Royale des Galeries in Brussels--that had turned Humphrey's life upside down three years before. _I don't believe in regrets, Mr Lancaster. But if you walk out that door, I will_. He'd returned to the ancient, creaking house on the Rue des Minimes hours later and sat in the empty library until morning. He ought to regret it--unlike Miss Eleanor Cobham, he had his fair share, not the least of which...but that was unfair to Jacqueline. He knew they'd been happy once, in London, before Harry scarpered off to Brazil and got himself killed. Before his world had become little more than a long string of unpaid creditors and lawyers' fees.

 

It was his own damned fault, of course. Swept away by the idea of dashing to a lady's rescue, he'd married Jacqueline before the divorce papers she'd sent to her cad of a husband had been fully settled. Now they lived in the decaying, dust-choked corridors of what had once been the Bavière family's house in town--the estate near Mechelen had already been broken up and sold to pay Jacqueline's father's debts--huddling in the cold as Jacqueline grew thinner and paler and the laughter vanished from her face as if it had never been.

 

He was secretly relieved that there had been no sign of children. How they could possibly afford to keep them under these circumstances, he had no idea. John, predictably, refused to speak to Humphrey in public until he was no longer married to a bigamist. And, though Humphrey was aware that the delays were hardly Jacqueline's fault, he could not help but wish she hadn't assumed the divorce would take care of itself when her family had already spent the last of its fast-fading influence.

 

"Where were you, Humphrey?" His wife's voice broke through the reverie, sharply accusing.

 

He shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

 

"Of course it matters!" Jacqueline drew the faded velvet wrap tight around her fragile frame. "Who is she?"

 

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," said Humphrey, keep his eyes carefully fixed on her face. "And even if there were, I can't imagine it signifies."

 

Jacqueline laughed. The sound was far removed from mirth. "No, I don't suppose it does. I daresay you mean to point out that our marriage was never valid in the first place, and adultery therefore doesn't count?"

 

"I said nothing of the sort."

 

"Of course you didn't. You've always been very good at _not_ saying things, Humphrey." Before he could respond, she'd crossed the room to kneel beside the chair. "I never meant for this to happen. You _know_ that."

 

Absently, he covered her hand with his. "Christ, Jacqueline, I know you never meant harm. But I can't live like this. Neither of us can."

 

Her family had been embroiled for nearly fifty years in a legal battle with the Vaillant over a disputed will that, in Humphrey's opinion, made _Jarndyce and Jarndyce_ look like a complaint letter in the _Times_. It had drained the Bavière resources while the Vaillant threw in their lot with Harry, undercutting and ruining their own Paris cousins in the Transvaal and making their fortune in the bargain.

 

"It's only a matter of--"

 

"You've been saying that for _three bloody years_!" Thrusting aside her hand, Humphrey shoved the chair back and strode to the window. "Three years, Jacqueline. I've all but abandoned Henry and I promised my brother I'd care for him--"

 

"John--"

 

"John has his own responsibilities. Harry left him in charge of all his operations in Africa, not to mention the Vaillant mess, and you know for a fact that he hated this idea from the start." Humphrey watched unseeing as people began to appear on the street outside, an entire world taunting him from outside this prison of glass and stone and bloody signatures. "You're miserable, Jacqueline. As miserable as I am. You can't possibly deny that."

 

When he glanced back at her, she was staring blankly at the theatre programme he'd left sitting on the desk. Eleanor Cobham's eyes, kohl-rimmed and mesmeric, gazed up from the cover. "Cleopatra."

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"You couldn't take your eyes off her at the theatre last night." Her voice was shaking. "I told myself I'd imagined it, that you wouldn't--"

 

He closed his eyes and Eleanor Cobham was suddenly there, her smile holding in it everything he'd forgotten he wanted. "Jacqueline, don't."

 

"--and you come back here, reeking of perfume, and saying these awful things. _Nom de Dieu_, Humphrey, _look_ at me!" He obeyed just as she pressed her trailing sleeves to her eyes, already red-rimmed as if she had been crying for hours. Jacqueline never cried in public--not even as judge after judge declared her a whore and ordered her to return to her _real_ husband; indeed, her stony indifference had graced the gossip sheets time and time again. But she'd cried every night, face pressed into his shoulder.

 

He wanted to say it had all been an awful mistake, that he'd been young and stupid--but he hadn't, really, had he? Humphrey had never been stupid, and he hadn't been young since his father had had Cousin Richard murdered in a madhouse. So he said nothing and took her in his arms.

 

It was another year before her family's attorney informed her in no uncertain terms that they didn't stand a chance against the Vaillant, and furthermore, they could no longer afford to keep him retained. Jacqueline had joined her mother in Biarritz, where the Vaillant had--generously, or so Jacqueline was repeatedly informed--given them a small villa in return for retiring altogether from society.

 

Humphrey, in his turn, had given up attempting to bribe judges for a verdict on Jacqueline's divorce and returned to London, where Eleanor joined him. John had been horrified and, apparently finding newly sanctioned adultery as reprehensible as not-quite-sanctioned bigamy, still refused to speak to him publicly; a turn of events that had stung far more than Humphrey had anticipated.

 

It had been little over a year since he and Eleanor had finally married, and two years since his career at the Foreign Office had dissolved in the wake of the scandal. John had, through his reluctant connections, found him something unobtrusive in the Home Office and at least traded stiff greetings with Eleanor although he would vouchsafe her nothing more.

 

But Society would move on to different things soon enough. The newly married Yorks' first child--named Edward after his great-uncle--was, as per Eleanor's wager, born just within the bounds of respectability while they were on holiday in France. An unsinkable ocean liner smashed into an iceberg in the North Atlantic and Henry declared that he never wanted to travel on a ship again. And Humphrey began to see a country called Serbia appearing here and there in newspapers as the war in the Balkans dragged on.

 

"It's more important than anyone wants to let on," John said one evening as he and Humphrey left the club. "Too many people want war."

 

Humphrey sighed. John may have lacked imagination in all its useful contexts, but he did have a brilliant mind for magnifying crises. "Even the Germans can't manufacture a war from nothing, Johnny."

 

"They'll find an excuse," John muttered darkly. "Bloody Germans."

 

It wasn't especially surprising, Humphrey had to admit, that John turned out to be right in the end or that he insisted on joining up. What was surprising was his adamant insistence that Humphrey remain behind. "You're responsible for Henry. You've already left him once--"

 

The reminder of Brussels still stung even now. "But I don't understand why you feel the need to go traipsing off to France in the first place."

 

John just looked at him, a volume of scorn in his eyes. "God and Country, Humphrey. Have you no sense of national pride at all?"

 

"It isn't as if that matters, since you're so determined I should stay here," he protested. "You'd damned well better tell Henry yourself. Don't wait for bloody Beaufort to twist the knife."

 

"Speaking of Beaufort--"

 

"Oh, let's not."

 

"Humphrey, do be serious." John rolled his eyes heavenward. "Henry likes him--why, I cannot conceive, but that is simply the fact of the matter--so you must at least endeavour to be civil to him."

 

"But you admit," Humphrey stopped to look him in the eye, "that the man is positively intolerable."

"Dear God, Humphrey, of course I do. I can't stand the sight of him."

 

"Would you swear to it in court?"

 

"Shut up, Humphrey."

 

He told himself it would all be over by Christmas, that such an utterly silly war had to burn itself out sooner or later, and that John couldn't possibly be serious about joining up. It was all posturing and no substance.

 

But Henry's birthday, and then Christmas, came and went with a letter and a box of Breton _marrons_ from John that Henry ate slowly and thoughtfully by the fire.

 

"When will Uncle John come home?"

 

Humphrey couldn't answer. He folded John's letter and tucked it safely into his pocket. Finally, he bowed his head, unable to look at his nephew. "I'm afraid I don't know, Henry. The war isn't...it'll be over soon, I'm sure. But not yet."__

 

It was the first time of many thousands that he would speak those words, and they would become increasingly empty of meaning.

 

For the war did not end. John did not come home.

 

The black-edged telegram arrived after Humphrey had already read in the newspapers how the Germans had turned the very air to poison at Ypres. What hurt the most was that it hadn't surprised him. What did was Cecily York appearing on the doorstep of Lancaster House, tears gleaming at the corners of her eyes as she held out a letter in what Humphrey recognised as Richard's handwriting.

 

"I'm so very sorry, Mr Lancaster."

 

Henry had been away at school, thankfully. He hadn't seen Humphrey cry for the bull-headed, cantankerous, idiotically noble brother twenty years too old to have died in those trenches.

 

Henry returned from his third year at Eton quiet and subdued, raising his voice only in the middle of the night when he awoke screaming about poison gas. Humphrey never found out who had told him but decided it would be best to have Henry schooled at Carnarvon. Again and again, he looked for his dead brother in this shaking, terrified boy and found no trace of him.

 

They didn't even know where John was buried, in the end. Just like Harry. And, just like Harry, they placed a plaque in the family mausoleum at Lancaster House beside the tombs of their parents and grandparents. Humphrey couldn't help but wonder where he would die, or if the war would ever end and his nephew would smile again.

 

It was all such a senseless, bloody waste.


	4. Part III

_iii. Posterity, await for wretched years  
When at their mothers' moistened eyes babes shall suck,  
Our isle be made a nourish of salt tears,  
And none but women left to wail the dead.  
\--Henry VI, Part I (I.i.48-51)_

 

_My darling Richard--_

 

_Just a few words, love. The stories we've heard have been the stuff of nightmares. Tell me you are alive_.

 

He tucked the letter into his pocket, its sharp edges oddly comforting against his skin. Somewhere, he could hear explosions. He didn't even jump anymore, though Cecily had spoken to him of nightmares when he was last on leave. Nightmares of what had happened to John Lancaster and Cecily's brother, a shuddering, twitching, broken sleep from which he couldn't wake.

 

He would write to her. Just a field postcard, with too little space for detail. Ned was old enough that he would try to read them and Cecily would not thank him if he forced her to explain the trenches to their son.

 

Richard closed his eyes and Ned's face swam in his vision, a towheaded boy with his mother's smile--the smile he remembered from before the war, not the pale shadow he'd last seen. _Richard, don't go back. For God's sake, don't go _back_ there_. God help him, he'd nearly said yes, and she'd seen that moment of indecision and the hope in her eyes nearly did him in. _I couldn't live with myself if I didn't_. They'd held one another in silence after.

 

"York." He glanced back to find Vernon in the doorway of the dugout. "Talbot's got some new mad scheme. You'd best talk him out of it."

 

"When did John Bloody Talbot ever listen to me?" Richard sighed. "I'll do what I can."

 

But when he reached the neighbouring trench, Talbot had already run off, to God only knew where. Richard looked at the men clustered round the crate transformed into an impromptu card table. "What is he doing, then?"

 

"Unoccupied trench somewhere that way," one of them, an older, second lieutenant named Marston, gestured vaguely northwards, the flick of his hand reminding Richard of something he couldn't quite place. "He thinks we can take it tonight."

 

"Has he, in fact, lost his mind?"

 

Marston shrugged. "There's a fair bit of that going round. Cry havoc and loose the dogs of war, etcetera..."

 

"Well said, sir," Richard allowed, with a tight smile. The other returned it with what was practically a grimace. He was one of more recent conscripts, having arrived the previous November, but his eyes were already dulled from strain and grief.

 

There was something in his face that nagged at Richard, but he hadn't the time to think on it further. It was only as he crept through the curtain of rain in search of Talbot that he realised where he'd seen that expression before. He hadn't thought of his uncle Edward, his father's elder brother, since before the war, before his marriage, even--Talbot had known him, though he referred to him somewhat uncomfortably as a man of 'unusual tendencies'. But it wasn't his uncle's tendencies, unusual or otherwise, that pricked him now. It was the last time he'd seen him, some few months before his father's death, at Carnarvon.

 

Long after he'd been put to bed, Richard had crept down the stairs, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost of dead, mad Richard Perrivale who, according to Cook, haunted the library. Instead, he'd found his uncle with their host, who had been briefly introduced to him as Henry Lancaster. His foot had accidentally hit a creaky board and, before he could duck behind the door, they'd both looked up.

 

"What have we here?" There was something needle-sharp beneath Mr Lancaster's question, however cheerfully couched. "Your nephew, Edward, isn't it?"

 

"Richard," his uncle said, shaking his head. "What have I told you about sneaking out at night?"

 

"I wanted to see the ghost. I've never seen a real one before." He straightened. "I'm not afraid."

 

"That," Mr Lancaster said, eyes narrowed, "would depend on the ghost, I should think. Who are you looking for?"

 

"Let me put him to bed, Harry," interjected Uncle Edward. "He's just a boy."

 

Wide-eyed, Richard let his uncle lead him from the library into the darkened front hall, but stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Did I do something wrong?"

 

Uncle Edward's smile was so small and weak it nearly got swallowed by his beard. "No, Richard, you didn't do anything wrong."

 

"But I want to see a real ghost. Father says they don't exist but I think they do. Especially here," he added, looking round warily. "You can hear things."

 

"Can you, now?" There was a new light in his eyes now, as if he were desperately looking for something and couldn't find it. "I can't--not anymore."

 

Richard nodded and pointed at a gilt-framed painting that hung beside the doors to the library. "He looks like a ghost."

 

Uncle Edward swallowed. "I suppose he does," he said, his voice rasping like sandpaper. "It was never finished properly, you see."

 

The man in the painting had grey eyes that seemed to stare right through Richard. Something in the set of his face reminded Richard rather of Mr Lancaster, although the portrait seemed sadder somehow. Reaching out, he squeezed Uncle Edward's hand. "Did you know him?"

 

His uncle nodded slowly. "A long time ago."

 

"Did he die?"

 

"We all die eventually, Richard. It's just a matter of when and how."

 

Uncle Edward had died of brain fever in the Transvaal within a year of Richard's father. At least, Richard thought grimly, he'd avoided this great bloody mess.

 

"Ah, Major York. Looking a bit the worse for wear, aren't we?" Talbot, it seemed, had found him.

 

Richard straightened and saluted quickly. "Sir, what's this about taking that trench?"

 

"Orders, young man, orders from the Commander-in-Chief himself." Brigadier John Talbot was perhaps slightly younger than Richard's father would have been, had he lived, and had spent most of his life serving the British Empire in a scattering of far-flung locales. Before he'd known Richard's uncle in the Transvaal, he'd been acquainted with little Henry Lancaster's grandfather in India. He was, in turns, the most courageous and most infuriating man Richard had ever met. "We're moving forward."

 

"In this, sir?" Richard gestured to the mud that had all but captured his boots. "It's suicide."

 

"Orders."

 

He bit his tongue. That was the problem with Talbot. He'd made his entire, illustrious career out of following orders to the letter and somehow wrangling successes out of the worst odds. If anybody could take that benighted trench, it would surely be Talbot.

 

"After sunset," Talbot said. "Hold your men in reserve. We can't commit everyone at the head, but you'll need to be ready."

 

There was no arguing with him. York bowed his head. "Yes, sir."

 

"Major Somerset has my left and you my right, York." He peered at Richard through beady, scowling eyes. "There are more important things than your petty squabblings, York. Them," he gestured into the pervasive damp mist that obscured No Man's Land, "for instance."

 

"Yes, sir." He could feel the heat rise in his neck. "Of course, sir."

 

He supposed it was inevitable that he would meet Somerset sooner or later; one couldn't spend three years in a war where men were moved like so many pawns without running into the one person guaranteed to make things even worse. But that didn't change the fact that his humiliation of Somerset seven years before had made the other man loathe him all the more.

 

Richard had just turned to return to his dugout when a young and suspiciously clean young man brushed past him to catch Talbot's arm.

 

"Johnny!" For the first time since Richard had met him, some emotion that wasn't anger or irritation entered John Talbot's voice. "What the devil are you doing here?"

 

"I joined up, Father. I had to." He couldn't have been a day over seventeen. Ned's face flashed even sharper across his memory and Richard shuddered. Talbot's expression echoed this horror as he shook his head slowly.

 

"My God, Johnny, you shouldn't be here. You _can't_ be here. York, take him--"

 

Richard had taken two steps forward before young Johnny Talbot flung up one hand to stop him. "I'm not leaving. I couldn't stay back there, not while you're at the front. Father, I'm here to help you."

 

"Christ, boy." Talbot bowed his head but Richard caught the glimmer of tears in the lantern-light. "I'm begging you. Don't _stay_ here."

 

"We'll explain that it was a mistake," Richard heard himself say. "He can't be eighteen."

 

"Don't you _dare_!" Johnny flared. "I'm not going back. I'm staying with my father."

 

Richard met Talbot's eyes, hit with such a painful upsurge of hope that he caught his breath. He didn't dare look out to No Man's Land. However, Talbot closed his eyes before pitching his voice so the entire trench could hear. "We go over tonight. After sunset."

 

Turning away from his son, he rounded the corner to the next dugout. Richard retreated as well and settled down to write to Cecily.

 

_Darling--_

 

He stopped, tapping the pen against his teeth. The last of the light had melted away. Talbot would be making his charge soon.

 

_I will come back to you. Whatever it takes_.

 

After dropping the postcard into a mail pouch, he snatched up his kit and made his way to where he had last seen Talbot. Through the mist, he could see the blurred outline of shells crashing down on the trench the Brigadier had indicated before.

 

"They're being slaughtered, sir." Vernon's face looked green in the scant light. "Do we go?"

 

The seconds crawled by as Richard watched the red-starred horizon. "Wait for Somerset."

 

"But sir--"

 

"_Wait_. We can't do anything on our own. Even with his numbers, we may not stand a chance, but we're definitely for the chop otherwise."

 

_Whatever it takes_. He could see Sir John Lancaster's smile, grim and steely as it had been just over a year before, further west across this blasted landscape. A shell had taken him within twenty yards of the trench from which he'd just emerged. Cecily's brother Thomas, shrapnel clinging like thorns to his face. So many others whose names he'd never learnt. _I will come back to you_.

 

Somerset didn't move.

 

"Major York, sir, we can't just let them die," Vernon whispered. "We _can't_."

 

"And what good would it do, Vernon, if we died with them?" Richard asked bitterly. "Tell me that." _Live for me, Richard. I would do very badly without you_. Further along the trench, Somerset's men were silent. Slowly, the shelling ground to a halt. Richard relaxed his grip on the rifle and closed his eyes. "It was a bloody stupid idea."

 

"You don't think there's a chance...?" Richard shook his head. Vernon shuddered. "Someone will need to report this."

 

"I will. We made the only decision we could under the circumstances. If Somerset had given the least indication that he was going over, we'd have followed." If he said the words over and over, perhaps he could convince himself they were true, that he truly _would_ have charged into No Man's Land if things had gone as planned.

 

At daybreak, the medics returned empty-handed.

 

***

 

Outside the window, the rainswept Berkshire countryside spread across the horizon in a blur of grey and green. Cecily spread her hand across her belly as the baby moved beneath it. The doctor had insisted it was another boy but even now she wondered--he was still so very small compared to how Ned and George had weighed on her by her ninth month.

 

"He'll come back," she found herself telling him--or her. "He has to come back."

 

But the words rang hollow. They'd had a letter from Thomas a bare two days before the field telegram arrived. Mother had sent her to Carnarvon with the boys, insisting that London was no place for an expectant mother and that if she wanted to be useful, Humphrey Lancaster's wife had taken in several men still not quite well enough to return to their families.

 

"They always like having women about. They can think about something other than death." The lines on Mother's face had deepened to furrows since Thomas' death. "Just let them pretend, Cecily."

 

It seemed, however, that all the patients did at first was ask about Richard--where he was stationed, what he'd seen--and Cecily had answered as well as she could. Her husband's letters were cryptic at best, no doubt because he knew she wouldn't be the only person to read them. Only in those brief days when he returned to England on leave did she even catch a glimpse of the truth in all its horror.

 

It was only the second time he'd come home. The first had been at Christmas, six months after Sir John Lancaster had died at Ypres, and he'd awakened her with nightmares on all but the first night--nightmares he could not remember in the morning. Somehow the dull-eyed silence more than a year later was almost worse, as if it no longer surprised him. If there were nightmares still, he kept them to himself and she forced herself to let him, at least until a frigid morning in January when she awakened alone in sheets soaked with sweat and she realised she could stand it no longer.

 

"Richard?" she whispered, a pit opening somewhere in her stomach as it occurred to her that she might have imagined it all, that he was still in France--one might as well have named it Hell-- "Richard, where are you?"

 

She crept from the bed and groped for her robe in the twilight. As she pulled it snug around her, she saw the shadow in the window-seat. He was staring blankly into the garden, his eyes miles away. "Richard, come back to bed, love." Cecily could see him start, every muscle in his body tensed as if he were on the verge of leaping to his feet. "Richard, it's me," she whispered, holding out her hand even as she sought to hide the fear clawing at her. "Don't you know me?"

 

For several seconds, he just stared at her. Cecily froze in place, one hand still outstretched. Finally, he shook his head a little. "Cecily?"

 

"Yes?" She could barely hear herself.

 

He drew a shuddering breath. "Christ." Another shake of his head before he pressed his fingers to his temples. "I'm sorry, Cis. I didn't mean to wake you."

 

"Nonsense," she said, swallowing the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat. "Tell me what's wrong." Settling beside him, she reached out and took his hand. "Please, Richard."

 

"It's nothing," he said, voice flat and unconvincing. "I couldn't sleep, that's all."

 

"Don't you dare lie to me, Richard York--"

 

"For God's sake, Cis, let it be!"

 

"No, damn you, I _won't_," she snapped, perilously close to tears. "Why won't you tell me what's happening?"

 

"I can't," he whispered. His eyes finally met hers, the colour of the clouds outside, and he reached out to cradle her cheek in one freezing hand. "I can't, Cis."

 

"Why not?" Tears pricked at her eyes. "My God, Richard, do you think me blind? Mother and I visit the hospitals several times a week, for goodness' sake. I've heard the stories, I've seen the scars, and I've woken men from nightmares that--"

 

"To each man his own hell." He pressed his lips to her hand. Cecily shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her. "You are everything that is not the war--everything that isn't filth and death and the awful crippling _sameness_ of it all." There was the ghost of a smile in his voice even as Cecily squeezed her eyes shut against the threatening tears. "Did you think I wouldn't notice that you put scent on your letters?"

 

"The first time Mother and I went to St Bartholomew's, we met a young man named Simon Harford. He couldn't have been more than nineteen," she said, hearing the catch in her own voice. "He'd lost a leg near the Marne and he said that he could always smell lilies on his wife's letters. She kept a flower shop in Galway."

 

"I loved it."

 

Tears seeped from Cecily's eyes and soaked into his shirt. "Richard, don't go back. For God's sake, don't go _back_ there."

 

His words were muffled against her hair. "I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."

 

"You can't possibly mean that." But she didn't believe the words even as she spoke them. "You're not permitted to die, you hear? I will never forgive you if you do."

 

"I'll hold you to that." He kissed her forehead, laughter buzzing briefly against her skin. "I'd be a bloody idiot if I did. I'll always come back, Cis. Even if you grew so sick of me that you'd rather I didn't."

 

She knew, in her heart, that he had no control over that and she did not ask him again, though her very heart bled to keep silent. And when she found herself pregnant once again, she bit back her curse at the unfairness of it all; that she would bear yet another child who barely knew Richard. George hadn't recognised him at all on this last leave, peeking warily out from behind the banister at the gaunt, bedraggled man his mother insisted was his father.

 

Even Richard's response seemed strained, though it was difficult to tell in writing. Now was no time to bring another child into the world, but the alternative was unthinkable. It was as much to lift Cecily's spirits that her mother had seen fit to send her to Carnarvon with Ned and George; at the very least, Ned would have the run of the estate and the somewhat startled attentions of his cousin Henry, who had been withdrawn from Eton but was still preparing for his Oxford examinations.

 

He was an odd young man, Henry Lancaster. In the first place, he seemed quite unnerved by her, as if he'd never seen a pregnant woman before. Of course, it did occur to Cecily that he probably hadn't, without younger brothers or sisters or cousins. He did, however, have the patience of a saint in Cecily's eyes for his willingness to indulge Ned's relentless questions.

 

"Cousin Cecily?" Henry was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. "I'm afraid...I asked Ned to fetch me a book I'd left in my room and it's been half an hour and I don't know where he's gone..."

 

Cecily sighed. "You ought to know better by now, Henry, than to trust Ned not to wander off. Very well." Making her way to the door, she laid one hand on his arm and felt him flinch. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Henry, you can't hurt it!"

 

"I'm sorry, Cousin Cecily--"

 

"It's all right. Just help me down the stairs and I'll find Ned."

 

It was, she suspected, with a great deal of relief that he left her to retreat to the library. Cecily only had to wait a few moments for the sound of Ned's voice to pipe up from the direction of the back parlour.

 

"Ned!" Cecily halted in the doorway and pressed her hand to her swollen belly as she caught her breath. "You know you're not meant to be here. These gentlemen need their rest."

 

Her son resembled her to an uncanny degree, or so she'd been told innumerable times. He was easily the most beautiful boy she'd ever seen--even excepting a mother's bias. "I was telling him about Father," he said, gesturing to the soldier in the bed behind him. "He told me about a boy raised by panthers!"

 

To Cecily's enquiring look, the soldier, a private from Northamptonshire, vouchsafed a sheepish smile. "He wanted a story. I couldn't refuse the lad."

 

"Mother, can we get a panther?"

 

"I'm afraid there aren't any panthers in England, dearest." Cecily met the soldier's eyes as he muffled his laughter in his sleeve. "You may need to travel to India for that."

 

"Just like Cousin Henry's great-grandfather," Ned said, nodding sagely. "He killed a tiger with his bare hands and brought home its skin to Lancaster House."

 

"How dreadful," murmured Cecily, resigning herself to the disappointment on her son's face. "Now, come along, Ned. It's nearly teatime."

 

The prospect of tea, rationed as it was, proved sufficient distraction for Ned, who charged off down the corridor toward the parlour. Cecily followed at a more sedate pace, wincing as a sharp pain shot through her belly.

 

"Mrs York?" Eleanor had convinced a hospital sister from Henley to stop in once or twice a week, and it was Mrs Winston who took Cecily's arm now. "Is it the baby?"

 

Cecily nodded slowly. "I think it must be. Will you help me to my room?"

 

"Of course, ma'am. And I'll ring the doctor for you."

 

They had nearly reached the staircase when the room began to spin. "Mrs Winston, I..."

 

It was the last thing she remembered before time itself lost all meaning, flying past and crawling at once somewhere through the haze of agony. There was a point when she could have sworn her mother was beside her, holding her hand as she spoke over Cecily's head to the doctor.

 

"...this can't go on. It's been four days already. There must be _something_ you can do, man!"

 

"Four days?" Cecily croaked, trying to see the doctor's face. "But that can't be right."

 

"Don't talk, dearest. Save your strength," Mother said. "Something must be done, and if you won't do it, I'll find someone who will. If the child isn't dead by now, it's a miracle."

 

"He's not dead," whispered Cecily. "I can feel him. He's moving. He just...something's _wrong_."

 

The doctor bent closer. "It's dangerous, Lady Neville. You know the risks."

 

"But if you don't cut, they'll both die. I can't understand it; she's had two boys already, each as easy a birth as one could want." Mother's face was pale and drawn as if she hadn't been sleeping. Cecily didn't want to imagine what she looked like. "Do it, Doctor Caux. I can't think of any other way."

 

When Cecily awakened, the room was quiet--deathly quiet. She could almost imagine nothing had happened, that it had all been a dreadful dream, at least until she tried to sit up and pain seemed to cleave her in two.

 

She must have cried out, for when she opened her eyes she found her mother bending over her, familiar fingers clasped round her hand. "Mamma--"

 

"I knew I shouldn't have left her," she was saying to someone on the far side of the bed. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Cecily turned to see Doctor Caux, his face grey with worry.

 

"Doctor, where is he?" Cecily said. She could barely recognise her own voice, hoarse and grinding like broken glass. "The baby. What happened?"

 

Doctor Caux was not looking at her any more; his eyes had met her mother's and they seemed to have an entire silent conversation before he held out a small vial to her, filled with dark red liquid. "Drink this, Cecily. You're not strong enough."

 

"Strong enough for what?" Her eyes narrowed as she glanced from one to the other. "Mama, tell me what happened. You _must_ tell me." She could hear the catch in her own voice as she spoke the inevitable words, "He's dead, isn't he?"

 

"He isn't, Cecily." Her mother would not look at her. "Your son is alive."

 

There was something in the words, something that made Cecily's skin crawl on instinct. "But what?"

 

"You nearly died, Cecily," Doctor Caux grasped her other hand and brought the vial to her mouth. "You must regain your strength, young lady--"

 

Her grip was surprisingly strong as she pulled him closer, drops of laudanum splashing like bloodstains across the coverlet. "_Tell_ me, for God's sake. I have the right to know."

 

"Drink first."

 

Without further hesitation, she tossed back the remaining liquid in the vial, grimacing at its heavy sickly-sweetness. "Now tell me."

 

She had forgotten the cradle at the far corner of the room; it had been Ned's and then George's, and she had brought it to Carnarvon, intending it for her third child. Her mother paused beside it now, reaching down to retrieve an impossibly small, wrapped bundle.

 

The last thing Cecily remembered before the laudanum haze claimed her was quiet, chilling eyes the very colour of Richard's gazing into hers as one skeletal, withered hand reached out to her.

 

***

 

The last place in the world in which Marguerite Lorentz expected to fall in love was the Brasserie Claudette near the Rue Saint-Denis on a rainy night in March of 1917. And yet, much to her chagrin, that was precisely what happened.

 

Madame Grieux was famous for her authentic Alsacien _tartes flambées_ and infamous for knowing everything about anyone who entered her brasserie. Marguerite wouldn't even have been there that night had Nadine Monteuil's father not unexpectedly arrived on leave from Salonika. Thankful for the chance for extra money, Marguerite sent her grateful friend on her way

 

It was a busy evening, unsurprisingly. Nadine's father was not the only soldier on leave--a group of Englishmen had taken over the benches closest to the bar, the unfamiliar uniforms and appalling French all but drowning out the usual patrons. After about two hours of balancing glasses and plates, she begged Madame Grieux for five minutes to catch her breath and got a harried nod and a small glass of Madame's _eau-de-vie_.

 

"I apologise for my companions," an English voice said from the shadows beside the door. "It's been some time since they've had a decent meal."

 

"No offence taken, monsieur," she replied with a shrug as she relished the burn of alcohol down her throat. "But for you, we would all be speaking German now."

 

"I shouldn't go that far." She could hear the smile in his words. "But thank you...what is your name, mademoiselle?"

 

"Marguerite Lorentz," with a grin, she added, "_Monsieur l'ombre_. A face or a name would be helpful if you cannot provide both."

 

His laughter warmed her almost as much as had the _eau-de-vie_, but when he stepped into the light, she could only catch her breath. Marguerite was not a fanciful person by nature but the young man facing her had a face like one of da Vinci's angels in the Louvre. She had not thought to find beauty outside those walls in these days of mud and death.

 

"Lieutenant William Suffolk at your service, mademoiselle Lorentz." He bowed over her wine-stained hand as if she were a grand lady. "And, if I may be so bold as to say, you are the most beautiful thing I have seen in all of Paris."

 

"You are bold," she echoed, laughing herself. "My _maman_ told me to beware of men and their compliments."

 

"She was right. We are all rogues and not to be trusted." He did not let go of her hand, all the same. "Where is your mama?"

 

"Far away from here. A village called Le Wantzenau, near Strasbourg."

 

"How did you end up here, then?"

 

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. What's one more wanderer in Paris? I would not trade it for the world."

 

"You're very brave, you know," he said after a moment spent lighting a cigarette. "On your own in the middle of a war."

 

"I barely remember what it felt like to not be in the middle of a war." Draining the last of the _eau-de-vie_, she turned back to the door. "I'm afraid I can't stay. _Au revoir_, monsieur."

 

It had not occurred to her to think anything of the conversation, and it could easily have found itself filed away at the back of her memory to be pondered on rare moments many years later. But Lieutenant William Suffolk would not have it so.

 

As it neared midnight, the brasserie began to empty out and one of the two barmen settled at the rickety piano in the corner as he tended to do when things were quiet. Like clockwork, Alphonse, who liked to boast of having played for the Empress Eugénie herself at the Jardins de Luxembourg, opened his case and pulled out his accordion.

 

On her way back to the bar with a tray of discarded glasses, Marguerite was forced to a halt as someone grabbed her hand.

 

"Dance with me." His voice was low, his fingers grasping her wrist. "Marguerite. _Margaret_."

 

The Anglicised vowels, though strange to her ears, lent her name more urgency as his eyes searched hers. On the far side of the brasserie, the pianist played a series of ascending notes soon picked up by Alphonse beside him. "_Bien_."

 

Setting the empty glasses on the table, she followed him to the musicians' corner. He smelled of cigarette smoke and English cologne and she couldn't help but wonder how he'd acquired such luxuries at the front. As if reading her mind, he offered her an impish smile. "My mother is a wonderful woman who sends me parcels."

 

"You are a lucky man indeed, Monsieur."

 

"Call me William. Or whatever it is here. I'm sure it will sound far nicer from you," he said, all but pouting at her. "Please, Margaret."

 

It was an awful idea. Patrons, and especially soldiers, would take everything they could possibly get in the gospel according to Madame Grieux. She had no interest in her hired help becoming _filles de joie_ because they hadn't had the sense to refuse a man in uniform. Marguerite glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder to make sure the usually hawk-eyed owner of the Brasserie Claudette hadn't seen her dancing with the dangerously handsome Lieutenant Suffolk.

 

"I had a friend of mine request the _tarte flambée_. She won't be back for at least ten minutes."

 

"You are persistent," she said primly. "But I shall tell you frankly. I will not flatter you, Monsieur."

 

"I don't want flattery." His voice lowered, breath catching as he looked at her.

 

Marguerite stepped away from him to hide the shiver. "You are...not a wise decision."

 

"Not wise. Never wise." Reaching out, Guillaume brushed the backs of his fingers against her cheek. "But I can promise you'll forget the war ever happened."

 

"Who are you?" Marguerite's laughter seemed to crack the very air. "Don Juan? Casanova? You forget, Monsieur _Guillaume_ Suffolk, that love is a goddess and not a man." Much as he had, she felt her tongue stumble over the unfamiliar consonants.

 

"Prove it to me, then." Suffolk smiled and it seemed as though the entire room had tilted on its axis. "And I was right about the name."

 

Marguerite did have a voice of reason. She was not, however, known for listening to it. And, as René, Madame Grieux's long-suffering husband routinely pointed out, they might be dead tomorrow. He was of the opinion that nothing mattered but the moment. Madame, who did not agree, put him to work as her sous-chef. René had lost his left arm at Verdun, a small price paid when every other man in his battalion had died. Slowly but surely the men in Marguerite's village had vanished, telegrams taking their place one by one. And on an inappropriately glorious day in July the previous year, ten.

 

Her parents had been convinced that she was pining for one of those men and had acquiesced to Marguerite's request to pay an extended visit to her aunt in Paris. It was simply her misfortune that Tante Olympe had succumbed to the influenza a bare few days before Marguerite's arrival and her small house near the Cimetière Père-Lachaise sold off to pay her debts. Madame Grieux had been a close friend of Tante Olympe and had taken Marguerite in without question and put her to work at the brasserie. She supposed she could have returned home, but the thought was one she did not relish. At least in the bustle of a massive city, she could find some respite from death.

 

"You can't possibly make me forget," she told Guillaume Suffolk. "But I would wish to think of something else for a few hours." And, she thought to herself, like as not, she would never see him again.

 

Madame Grieux stopped her in the doorway as she left at the end of the night. She pressed a small, oddly shaped parcel into Marguerite's hand. "You seem a lucky girl, but one can never be too careful."

 

She did not see him again for another six months, when he reappeared in the doorway of Brasserie Claudette and Marguerite, heedless of the patrons' eyes, threw herself into his arms without a trace of shame. She scoured the papers for reports from the Somme, her heart thudding as she read growing tales of horror. Every six months, like clockwork, he came to her doorstep like a man dying of thirst.

 

The English in the brasserie gradually gave way to young Americans, at least three of whom offered to whisk Marguerite across the Atlantic to cities whose names she'd never heard before--Pittsburgh, Saint-Louis (pronounced very oddly indeed), San Francisco. It had not been six months, but on the day the Armistice was signed, Marguerite began to watch the doorway compulsively.

 

A week before Advent, she found him in the corner of the brasserie and kissed him in full view of Madame Grieux. "Thank God it's all over. I can stop worrying that I'll never see you again."

 

Guillaume's eyes didn't quite meet hers as he looked at her. "You are the most magnificent woman I have ever met, Marguerite Lorentz." She told herself it was only the words that mattered.

 

Some hours later, she opened her eyes at well past midnight to find him awake, the red glow of the cigarette revealing that he stood beside the window of her attic room. Marguerite groped for the lamp and a dull light bloomed across the room. "You're distracted."

 

Madame Grieux had stopped her once more in the doorway--she had made no mention of Suffolk since that first day--and looked her in the eyes. "See that he marries you or he'll answer to me." It hadn't actually occurred to Marguerite, but the more she thought on it, the more appealing she found the idea. He had seen her each and every time he was on leave. Surely that meant something.

 

Suffolk put out the cigarette and settled himself beside Marguerite. "It's just strange is all. That it's all over now. I don't even remember what it meant."

 

Marguerite disentangled herself from the covers, despite the winter chill, and wrapped her arms around him. "You came back. That's all that matters in the end."

 

"No, Margaret, it isn't." He was staring determinedly at a pool of shadows near the wall. "I'm returning to England next week. I'm going home."

 

She couldn't have said why she had expected to hear anything more. He had never promised her anything, nor she him. "Paris bores you in peacetime?"

 

He sighed. "Don't be flippant, Margaret. I don't _want_ to."

 

"Then don't," she said. "Stay with me, Guillaume."

 

"I have a wife in Cheltenham."

 

And there it was. Marguerite's arms were still linked round his shoulders, her lips pressed against his neck, but it was as if his skin had suddenly turned cold. "And if the war had gone on? Would you have told me?"

 

"No." The word was muffled against her hand. "Because I can't bear to look at you now you know it. This wasn't meant to happen."

 

She backed away across the bed. "You never promised me anything, Guillaume. But I cannot help but wonder how you plan to explain your absences to this wife."

 

"Margaret--"

 

"You understand, do you not, why I might think about such a thing." She was shaking now. "Exactly how much leave _did_ you have, Monsieur Suffolk? Enough to satisfy a wife as well?"

 

He raised his eyes to the ceiling. "I understand that you're upset--"

 

"Oh, yes, I'm quite upset. Are you so very surprised?"

 

"I never meant to hurt you, Margaret." She turned away and heard him move closer, his voice pitched just beside her ear. "I meant what I said before. You are magnificent, my Margaret."

 

Before she could think better of the idea, she whipped round and her hand connected satisfyingly with his face. "I am not _your Margaret_. Least of all now that I know I'm not the only woman you're keeping."

 

The silence seemed to stretch indefinitely until he spoke again, the words barely audible. "For God's sake, Margaret, why do you think I kept coming back? Alice and I...it was only ever convenience. An alliance of interests. I had a position and lacked money; she had money and wanted a position. We barely speak to one another. And when I met you--"

 

"Stop it."

 

"Margaret, I _love_ you."

 

She looked up at him, barely able to form words for rage. "How _dare_ you. Get out of here, you filthy _salaud_." It was the worst insult she knew and the sudden realisation of just how little she'd understood even now, how provincial and pathetic-- "Get _out_!" she shrieked, shoving him backward until he stumbled against the bed. "I hope your insides rot. I hope your wife throws you into the streets. I hope you--"

 

"You've made your point." He held up his hand, weariness sketched across his face. "Adieu, Margaret."

 

He did not slam the door. It might have been more satisfying if he had. Sinking onto the bed, Marguerite cast about for something she could throw at it, but there was nothing but a nearly empty jar of lip rouge on the dressing table. Her hands were shaking and she could hardly breathe, as if something had formed in her throat to cut off her breath.

 

It was only when she looked in the mirror that she realised her face was covered in tears. For _Suffolk_. It was unendurable.

 

She stood slowly and deliberately, pulling her worn dressing gown tightly round herself. After splashing cold water on her face, she sat before the dressing table. A pinch of powder and kohl around her eyes would hide the redness.

 

There was an envelope lying on the dressing table. Marguerite frowned at it, at her name inked in unfamiliar handwriting. Holding it gingerly, as if wary of it bursting into flames, she carefully slit it open with nail scissors. The notepaper was pristine, thick and velvet-soft, the letters HRL embossed in script across the top.

 

_Dear Mademoiselle Lorentz,_

 

_No doubt you must wonder who I am, and I cannot blame you. My name is Henry Lancaster and I believe you once knew my mother, though perhaps only as Catherine Vaillant_.

 

Marguerite had one memory of Catherine Vaillant and that was of a quiet, sad lady--though she must have only been a girl, even that had seemed old to Marguerite, a few months past her fourth birthday--watching a glittering room filled with dancers as if looking for one in particular. When he appeared, Marguerite realised she'd replaced him with Suffolk.

 

"Damn and blast you, William Suffolk!" she hissed. Forcing her attention back to the letter, she read on.

 

_I regret to inform you that my mother passed away three weeks ago. Please forgive me for the delay; it took some time to find your present address. Quite luckily, a close friend of my uncle's happened to meet you--perhaps you recall Lieutenant William Suffolk_.

 

Marguerite closed her eyes and prayed for patience. Whoever this Henry Lancaster was, she did not approve his choice of friends in the least. But as she read on, weaving together his memories of his mother, a woman she'd barely known if at all, Marguerite began to wonder about him. He was young, to be certain, but seemed somehow unashamed of it.

 

_They say the war is over now. I would have been old enough to enlist a month after the Armistice and perhaps it is cowardly of me to admit it, but I am glad. I don't know why I'm admitting it to you, but perhaps it is because you are a stranger and in France--surely it must be a relief that it is finally finished_.

 

There was something oddly disarming about such bald truths written out to a perfect stranger. Even more so when she reached the end of the letter.

 

_Suffolk has told me so much about you and I hope you will not find it presumptuous if I tell you that, should you ever wish to come to England, I would be honoured to meet you_.

 

She sat at the dressing table for a very long time afterward before she began to write a response. In exchange for the confidences he'd offered she told him stories of the brasserie and its colourful patrons. Before she could change her mind, she posted the letter the next day.

 

William Suffolk did not reappear at Brasserie Claudette and she told herself it did not matter, that there was an entire new world in which he need not play the smallest part. And, perhaps, she would look forward to another letter from Henry Lancaster.

 

She was eighteen years old and had her entire life to forget William Suffolk.


	5. Epilogue: Et in Arcadia, ego

_Epilogue: Et in Arcadia, ego_

 

For the first time in what seemed like decades, Anne Perrivale's once-famed roses bloomed, transforming the arbour at Carnarvon into a riot of white and yellow, framed by the red blooms Eleanor had ordered the gardeners to plant when the others refused to grow.

 

Perhaps, Humphrey thought, it was a sign.

 

But even that prompted only a dull sort of acquiescence. Eleanor had planned a soirée to celebrate his forty-eighth birthday and all he could think of was that Catherine ought to have been there. And John, though he would have found something about which to complain. Instead, he saw Beaufort and Edmund Somerset and that Suffolk chap Somerset had always been so chummy with in Oxford. The three of them seemed to glitter, all razored edges beneath Carnarvon's chandeliers, the ubiquitous poppies tucked into their lapels.

 

Even Richard York seemed sharper somehow--the war had melted something unclassifiable from his face even as it added years to his eyes. Beside him, Cecily kept glancing his way, as if afraid he might disappear if she looked away. None of their sons were here; Ned had just started his first term at Colet House in London and George was with his grandparents in London. As for the third, one did not speak of him. Well, at least one did not if one had even a modicum of good sense. It had taken all of Humphrey's strength to hold Richard back when Edmund made an offhand remark about cripples.

 

He didn't know what had happened in the trenches to crystallise the hatred between Richard and Edmund, but he'd heard rumours of a court-martial related to the fatal charge of Brigadier John Talbot--a story that had made it as far as the London papers, albeit tucked into the middle pages--for which Richard had admitted some responsibility. Edmund, no doubt on Beaufort's advice, had claimed to have seen the entire thing with his own eyes--which of course begged the question of what he'd been doing at the time. Richard had escaped conviction only by the testimony of one of Talbot's own officers who had been left with Somerset's battalion, a Captain Warwick, who, for reasons of his own, insisted that Richard had made the only reasonable decision at the time.

 

Warwick himself was here with his wife, having been invited at Richard's request. Noting both Somerset and Suffolk, Humphrey could hardly refuse Richard _some_ recourse, though he wished with all his heart that this entire idiotic mess could be dispensed with. But, whatever the truth of the matter, there would be no reconciliation for his wayward cousins now, though even His Majesty's Government and the Kaiser had managed an uneasy truce.

 

As Humphrey let Eleanor lead him to the floor, he saw from the corner of his eye that Richard and Cecily had followed. Richard's expression softened as he led his wife into a slow waltz. He turned back to Eleanor and let her contented smile bring one to his face as he drew her close.

 

He did not notice the woman standing in the doorway until he realised Henry was frozen to the floor, his eyes trained on her. Bobbed black curls tumbled around her face and perfect red lips twitched in a cautious smile. Slowly, she crossed the room and held out her hand to Henry.

 

"Monsieur Lancaster." Her voice was low and musical, the French accent perfectly modulated. "You were very kind to invite me here."

 

"You're Marguerite." Henry sounded breathless, words tripping over one another. "Marguerite Lorentz." It took Humphrey several moments to recall where he'd heard the name--some relation of Catherine's? Henry had insisted on writing to all of them, even the ones Catherine herself had never mentioned, of which this Marguerite was one.

 

She dipped her head in assent. "I must admit I did not know her well, but Tante Catherine was a favourite of my father's."

 

"Will you do me the honour of this dance?"

 

Humphrey watched in shock as his nephew--normally the most reluctant of dancers--stepped to the middle of the floor with the beautiful Marguerite beside him. If he hadn't turned just then, he might not have seen Suffolk's expression, the unmistakeably jealous light in his eyes. And Marguerite glancing his way over Henry's shoulder, a smile on her face poised to pierce.

 

"My God," he heard Richard's voice murmur from just behind him. "Besotted at first sight? She'll eat him alive."

 

"He's a good boy but he hasn't got the sense God gave a rabbit," was Cecily's _sotto voce_ contribution. "Did you plan to speak with that doctor? The one from Pomfrey House?"

 

Humphrey had only been half-listening until the sound of a name he hadn't heard in more than thirty years. Eleanor looked up at him questioningly but he shook his head and tried to hear further.

 

"...it seems at least worth trying, Richard. Will you not consider it?"

 

"I just can't imagine how talking about my dreams with a man who used to work in a madhouse will help, Cis. But if you insist, I shall meet with him."

 

He allowed himself to relax just a little. It was pure coincidence. After all, the events of Pomfrey House had happened nearly forty years ago. The past was dead, practically a fairy tale in itself after the war. He remembered it, but only as if it existed within a strange glass frame through which he could no longer reach. Memories that belonged to another man altogether.

 

But as he looked back at Henry, he felt his heart sink. The smile on his young nephew's face could be described as nothing less than worshipful. More than anything, he wished Catherine were here. Or even John; for all that he and Humphrey had little or nothing in common as far as their views of matrimony were concerned, he had to give John credit for making the institution sound drier than one of Great-Uncle Edmund's lectures about beetles.

 

There was nothing dry about Marguerite Lorentz. Richard York, Humphrey realised with growing dread, was absolutely right. She'd eat him alive. And Humphrey couldn't stop her.

 

"Ah, young love." At the sound of Beaufort's voice, Humphrey stopped short, prompting a muffled exclamation from Eleanor. "Cat got your tongue, Humphrey?"

 

"Beaufort, if you must interrupt the dancing, couldn't you at least say something interesting?" Eleanor asked with a smile so poisonously sweet that Humphrey nearly kissed her then and there. "We had that from the Yorks at least five minutes ago."

 

"We are not all creatures of idleness, dearest Eleanor."

 

"Hmm." As he looked at his wife, Humphrey was put in mind of Philippa's pet cat stalking a mouse. "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. Or so they say."

 

Humphrey looked back toward the dancers and the others who watched. There wasn't a doubt in his mind. Something had happened between William Suffolk and Marguerite Lorentz--hadn't Henry only heard about her from Suffolk in the first place?

 

_Protect him, Humphrey. He simply doesn't understand the world_. Catherine had warned him, and somehow he'd let Henry walk straight into the trap.

 

"Who _is_ that little scrap of French fluff, Humphrey?" Eleanor had followed his gaze and was looking at Henry and Marguerite through narrowed eyes. "Looks like an adventuress to me."

 

"Eleanor, the war's only just ended. We know nothing about her or her circumstances." But he couldn't shake the unease that lingered each and every time he glanced toward his nephew. "I'll speak to Henry."

 

"Best to do it soon," she said. "Before she gets her claws into him." At his querying look, she smiled bitterly. "It takes one to know one."

 

Nor were theirs the only eyes following Henry and Marguerite. Cecily York was watching the younger pair, a frown between her brows, and her husband's expression could only be described as speculative. Suffolk looked positively thunderous and Somerset amused. And Henry, lost in the haze of adoration, saw none of it.

 

Pomfrey House.

 

He couldn't stop wondering. If it had been Craiglockhart, he might have understood; indeed, in light of what he'd heard from Cecily, it might even have been the most reasonable of expectations. And, perhaps, it was nothing more than that. It wasn't as though the Scottish hospital was the only one of its kind forced to contend with shellshocked men.

 

 But he was enough his father's son to know that some coincidences were simply too perfect to be real. Harry would have nipped it in the bud long before now; if Harry had known about Richard Perrivale's will, no matter his feelings toward their dead cousin, he would have destroyed it. But John had too many scruples and Humphrey...Humphrey wanted nothing more than for the past to simply exist without troubling the present.

 

And, perhaps, for that one night, beneath the chandeliers at Carnarvon, itself a bizarre relic of a world long dead, it might. Or so Humphrey thought before he turned his attention from his lovestruck nephew and found himself meeting the painted eyes of Richard Perrivale. Harry had had the portrait hung in defiance of their father, who seemed content to forget his unfortunate cousin had ever existed.

 

Cousin Richard was smiling; indeed, Humphrey almost hadn't recognised him since he couldn't remember ever having seen his cousin smile. Not properly, at any rate. The woman beside him was by no stretch of imagination beautiful but there was just something about them, something that shone, as if happiness itself were a kind of light.

 

 Surely they had all lost enough. Surely now the ghosts from before the war could sleep in quiet, as did the men beneath poppy fields in Flanders.

 

"One more dance, Humphrey," Eleanor's voice broke into his thoughts and he found her smiling at him. "It is your birthday, darling."

 

"One more."

 

_Finis_.


End file.
